


Colliding By Design

by Asterie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hipster Wizarding London, Interior Decorating, Interior Designer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Witch Weekly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25826467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asterie/pseuds/Asterie
Summary: Draco Malfoy has used his time under house arrest to launch a promising career in interior design, and Harry Potter has inherited a magical house in desperate need of renovation.  It’s an age-old story, brought to you with a little “help” from Witch Weekly Magazine. [EWE]
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 41
Kudos: 347





	Colliding By Design

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful betas, Minnow_53 and Miss Jayne, who probably had horrible flashbacks to my teenage Drarry days when I first told them about this fic. If nothing else, there's a lot less angst here!
> 
>   
> Title is from the song by Acceptance.

_And this is the room  
One afternoon  
I knew I could love you_  
‘King of Carrot Flowers Pt.1’, Neutral Milk Hotel

**i**

**Victims’ Voices Heard in Malfoy Trial**

In an unexpected twist at the Wizengamot today, victims who were detained and tortured at Malfoy Manor spoke out in favour of leniency at the trial of young defendant Draco Malfoy.

His father, Lucius Malfoy, has been sentenced to eight years’ imprisonment in Azkaban for his role in the atrocities of the war; and his mother, Narcissa, received the lesser sentence of six months’ house arrest at Malfoy Manor, largely due to testimony in her favour from war hero Harry Potter.

Today, the youngest Malfoy also received a sentence of house arrest, in his case for twelve months. Many expected Draco to be sent to Azkaban, following reports that he was instrumental in aiding You-Know-Who in his efforts to invade Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1997, as well as participating in the torture of prisoners at his family home.

However, victim-impact statements today painted a very different picture of his actions. Among those who spoke on Malfoy’s behalf were esteemed wand-maker Garrick Ollivander, and Luna Lovegood, daughter of _Quibbler_ editor Xenophilius.

Lovegood, showing great courage and poise for one so young, claimed, “Draco hated watching us being tortured, and was sometimes physically sick when he was forced to stay in the room... When [You-Know-Who] told him to hurt us, he clearly didn’t want to, but only did what he was told because he was threatened, too.”

Ollivander stated, “I can tell when a wand and its user are reluctant, and every harmful spell cast on us by Malfoy was done under duress.”

Harry Potter’s evidence during the trial itself may also have come into play. On the record, he gave damning testimony about Malfoy’s role in the prior invasion of Hogwarts, but also claimed, “When [Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley and I] were brought into Malfoy Manor, he refused to identify us to his father, to save us from being handed over to [You-Know-Who]. The whole time we were there, he was completely terrified.” When questioned about Malfoy’s role in the Battle of Hogwarts, Potter stated, “Malfoy was clearly hiding from the whole thing...he even told his friends not to kill me. He may have said it was because [You-Know-Who] didn’t want me dead, but it was clear to me that he was in over his head from the beginning and wanted no part of it.”

When the Wizengamot handed down the sentence, representative Elphias Doge stated, “While we cannot deny that Malfoy made the choice to become a Death Eater and follow in his father’s footsteps, it is clear that the full implications of this decision were beyond his understanding as he was not yet of age. Indeed, many adult wizards might well have acted in the same way, had they been threatened with torture by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. We must not take Malfoy’s actions lightly, especially as there is no dispute that he gave Death Eaters access to Hogwarts School, but we must also remember that he is still very young. To sentence him to Azkaban would be to remove any opportunity for rehabilitation.”

Malfoy chose to respond to the court and his victims with unexpected grace, saying in his prepared statement, “I sincerely regret my actions during the war, and am very grateful to everyone who offered their support, however little I deserve it. I know many people would like me to be sent to Azkaban, but I hope they see there is poetic justice in the fact that I will be imprisoned in the house where the Death Eaters imprisoned so many others.”

During his sentence, Malfoy will be working with assigned officers from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as well as specialist Mind-Healers from St Mungo’s Hospital, in the hopes that by the time he is released next December he will be able to put his past behind him and become a productive member of society. Whether this is possible for the son of such a prominent follower of You-Know-Who remains to be seen.

**ii**

The rumours began in April. Harry saw the first article in the papers when he got home from a grueling all-night training session on ‘seeing while remaining unseen’. He’d been hoping to have some breakfast - or did it count as dinner? - and go straight to bed, when the Daily Prophet landed right on top of his toast.

Pansy Parkinson, attempting to reinvent herself by writing freelance gossip columns while living out her own house arrest, reported that items from Malfoy Manor had started to show up in auction houses across the country, and even in some of the more reputable establishments in Knockturn Alley. The Greengrass family purchased a handcrafted self-playing piano at great expense, Pansy claimed, in hopes of securing a marriage between their youngest daughter and Draco Malfoy. It shocked much of pureblood society to hear that they’d been turned down flat, but at least the Malfoys threw in a triptych of priceless tapestries woven from Demiguise hair to soften the blow.

Her source witnessed a crew of house-elves Apparating in and out of the property, dumping crockery and other small items outside the gates. The next week, apparently, the source saw a bonfire that appeared to contain antique living and dining sets. The week after that, a crew of half-giants allegedly demolished the entire entrance hall and half of the east wing. 

_Witch Weekly's_ ‘celebrity divination analyst’ (and Hermione’s not-so-secret guilty pleasure), Madam Mimosa, wrote a double-page spread about the alignment of the planets and the soil in Wiltshire. Apparently, these were causing residents to be ‘ravaged by a desire for change’. “The plight of the Malfoys is a desperate one,” she concluded, “but if they bury black tourmaline crystals on the four corners of their property while the planets are in their grand cross alignment in August, this malady will pass, and they will be able to restore the former dignity of their name.” 

There had been silence for a while after that. Harry knew, because some deep - and incredibly annoying - instinct made him scan the papers for any mention of Malfoy now that he was back on the radar. 

“You should be relieved, mate,” Ron remarked, “the rate things are going, I expected him to stab his mum with a goblin-silver butter knife and have her body hauled out by werewolf day-labourers.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Ron, it was all being blown up out of proportion. If you were locked up in a house where you’d witnessed people being tortured, wouldn’t you want to clear it out a bit? I think it’s a perfectly reasonable reaction to trauma.” 

“Well, yeah, but we’re talking about the world’s biggest drama queen – this is part of some plan to get himself back in the news. He’s probably Parkinson’s mystery source, too.” 

Harry cleared his throat. “Can we talk about something else for a bit? I’m enjoying the break from seeing his name in the papers, so let's just have a Malfoy-free lunch, yeah?” 

He recognised the look Ron and Hermione exchanged from his Sixth Year at Hogwarts, and he didn’t like it. 

**iii**

**A New Man(or)**  
By Amelia Emmensworth  
_Draco Malfoy reveals unrecognisable family home_

Following months of intrigue, Draco Malfoy today made a statement announcing that the renovation of historic Malfoy Manor is now complete. He called a press conference at the gates of the sprawling grounds, which have also been given a new lease of life. Malfoy, pictured today (right), and following his sentencing last November (left), appears to have matured a great deal since that last public appearance. His physique suggests that he has undertaken much of the work on the premises himself, and his manner is very much that of the head of the household, a vast difference from the scared child we remember from his trial.

“I know many pureblood families would shy away from destroying so much of historical value, and some auctioneers with whom I’ve been dealing have said as much – but unless you were present during the atrocities of the war, it is impossible to understand how much the Manor’s previously proud history has been irrevocably tainted,” Malfoy announced. “I really wanted to tear the whole thing down, but its status as a Grade 4 listed building of magical heritage – as well as centuries-old warding spells – preclude that. We know many members of the press and public are curious to see how much the Manor has changed, and so we will be inviting a select few to a Halloween Ball to commemorate the end of the Wizarding Wars and mark a new beginning, not only for the Manor but also for the Malfoy family.” 

I was lucky enough to get a look inside the Manor before its official unveiling, and I must say the results are breathtaking. Gone are the intimidating heavy hardwoods and walls of portraits. Instead, we have brighter wallpapers and large-scale art pieces: in fact, all the previously dark spaces are now flooded with light, which is not only a strong political statement but also a strong aesthetic.

The stately architecture and high ceilings lend themselves well to this lustrous palette, and the simpler – but no less exquisite – furnishings serve to accentuate the grandeur of the house while also creating a more approachable atmosphere: it certainly stands apart from most other historic pureblood residences. However, while I myself was pleasantly surprised to witness what the Malfoy family has accomplished, it remains to be seen whether the wider magical communities will be accepting of what some are calling ‘the rejection of a noble heritage’. 

One must also ask, with the end of his year-long house arrest imminent, will Draco Malfoy and his mother be enjoying the fruits of their labour? Or is Mr. Malfoy’s reference to the residence simply as ‘The Manor’ a sign of more change to come? 

_For never-before-seen pictures of the new Malfoy Manor, make sure you pick up September’s special edition of_ Witch Weekly Homes!

**iv**

“You’re not seriously thinking of going,” Ron said, not even phrasing it as a question. 

“I am, as a matter of fact,” Harry replied, unfolding the invitation to look again. “He invited us as a sign of good faith; it’d be rude not to.” 

“Mate, you’ve skipped tons of Ministry things to avoid being the token war-hero. He just wants to show off that he knows you. It’s all about pushing his social standing back up by flaunting the fact that he has Harry Potter at his party.” 

“Actually, he’s invited quite a few people from school,” Hermione interjected. “I must admit, I’m not dying to go back to that place – but I’m also incredibly curious to see how it’s changed. Not to mention how much Malfoy’s changed. We all received his apology letters; I think it’ll be good to show that we support him if he’s trying to start afresh.” 

“But we don’t support him. Do we?” Ron asked. “I mean, I’m all for him admitting he was on the wrong side, but he was still a prick at school. Just because he’s reformed or whatever on paper doesn’t mean he’s suddenly a good person.” 

“He’s been quite nice in the letters. I mean, still... I dunno, snarky?” Harry shrugged. “But when it’s directed at other people he’s actually pretty funny.” 

“Hold on, _letters_?” Ron put his pint down and gave Harry a stern look. “Since when were we replying to him?” 

“Wait, you didn’t?" 

“Well, yeah, but ‘Mione helped me put something together to say, ‘thanks for writing, appreciate the sentiment, bye’. She crossed out all my ferret references, too,” he added, mournfully. “But I didn’t get a penpal out of it.”

Harry pushed his hair back from his face and sighed. Ron’s scrutiny was less intense than Hermione’s, but he wouldn’t let go of a topic if he felt strongly about it, especially after a few drinks. “He’s hardly a penpal. I sent the same kind of thing: thanks, tell your mum I said thanks as well. I just, sort of, wrote again when there was all that stuff in the news. Wanted to make sure he wasn’t actually going nuts. Malfoy may have been a nightmare at school but I thought I at least owed it to him and Narcissa, after everything that happened.” 

Ron sighed, picked up his drink, put it down again. “You can’t just leave things well enough alone, can you? I thought you said you were grateful he’d been sentenced and you didn’t have to worry about what he was up to ever again. But here you are writing to him, apparently often enough to go beyond pleasantries and into ‘snarky’ remarks.” 

Thankfully Hermione intervened at that point. “Well, moral questions aside; Padma, Parvarti, Lisa and I had lunch the other day and looked through some of the _Witch Weekly Homes_ special edition, and we all want to go just to see what it’s like.” 

Ron shook his head. “I thought you and your friends were different, ‘Mione, but maybe all women are obsessed with houses and nesting after all.” 

Hermione smacked Ron on the arm, hard, and Harry didn’t have to admit that he too had spent some of Sunday poring over the pictures of the unrecognisable Manor, wondering whether Malfoy could use his newfound decorating skills to get some of the more stressful paintings out of Grimmauld Place. 

**v**

No sooner had they stepped into the - admittedly impressive - entrance hall than they were accosted by Draco Malfoy himself.

“Potter, Weasley, Granger, welcome. It’s lovely to see all of you,” he proclaimed.

“Lovely’s a strong word,” Ron said, but he grudgingly let Malfoy shake his hand.

Malfoy gritted his teeth and turned to Hermione instead. “Granger, I know it must be especially difficult for you to be here,” he told her seriously. “I very much appreciate your coming.” 

She nodded in response, clearly thrown. “I’m glad you changed the house,” she replied at last. “It shows you have a conscience, that you couldn’t live with what happened here.”

“Was it his conscience, or was he just bored and splashing around his dad’s cash?” Ron wondered aloud.

“Think what you like, but _Witch Weekly Homes_ are calling me a ‘design prodigy’ so I must have done something right,” Malfoy said lightly. He seemed to be working really hard to be polite to Ron - Harry had to concede that his friend wasn’t making it easy. 

“Potter,” he said, finally turning his attention to Harry, “thanks for writing. Mother’s very pleased that I’m ‘starting anew with some good influences’, and I’ve been relieved to have someone to talk to other than the house-elves. Not that your grasp of grammar is much better than theirs,” he added with that familiar smirk, but he didn’t sound entirely malicious, which felt like progress to Harry.

Hermione looked torn between defending her friend or the house-elves, and Harry thought it would be best to move things on before she could make up her mind. “No problem, really. It’s actually good to see you.” He was surprised to find that he meant it.

Ron seemed horrified at the fact that Harry and Malfoy were having a relatively friendly exchange: he was looking from one to the other as if they were a couple of giant spiders playing tennis.

Malfoy lowered his voice slightly. “Also, since you’re here... Pansy’s out of house arrest now and trying to use me to get a permanent position at _Witch Weekly_. You all know her; I don’t suppose I could ask you to head her off if she tries to sneak away and look round the rest of the house? It’s off limits for a reason.”

“Hah, I told you so!” Ron crowed. “He’s got hundreds of ulterior motives for having us here.”

“An astute observation, Weasley. However,” he paused for a moment, as if composing himself, “my mother was very keen for me to invite my school friends, and I think we all know that’s a fairly small number. In all honesty, I probably know you three a lot better than most, which is thoroughly depressing. Greg’s here somewhere, probably near the buffet, and Blaise Zabini, and Millie Bulstrode, but that’s about it. Most of the others from our year understandably declined to attend.” Malfoy looked tired for a moment, and oddly sad. He glanced back at Ron. “I hope the pathetic wreck that is my social life makes you feel a bit better about spending your evening here. Enjoy the party.”

With that, Malfoy headed back into the crowd with a dramatic swish of his robes.

Harry eventually spoke. “Malfoy looks good, doesn’t he? Less - pointy. More grown up.” 

“Whatever you say, mate. He’ll always be Ferret Face to me,” Ron replied. “Now, can we go and find that buffet?”

A few hours and an ill-advised amount of champagne later, Harry found the courage to catch Malfoy alone. “So, um, I was wondering if you could do me a favour,” he started, before he could chicken out. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them, especially as Malfoy’s lip curled in a familiar disdainful gesture.

“A favour.” Perhaps it wasn’t disdain? Amusement, maybe? Harry had rarely - if ever - seen Malfoy amused when it wasn’t at his expense; maybe that was just what his face did.

“Yeah. Since I’m here for Halloween, making you look reputable and keeping Parkinson at bay, instead of doing something worthwhile like mourning my parents’ death.”

Malfoy smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, please. I know you must feel terribly put upon by being dragged out at all sorts of events, but I’ve seen how many petits fours you’ve put away, and I also witnessed you, Weasley, and Zabini actually standing together and laughing. Part of me does regret for your sake that this soiree is happening today, but you must admit that you’ve had fun.”

“Fun might be a bit much. But the catering’s definitely a lot better than at Ministry dos, I’ll give you that.” To be fair, Harry had no choice but to concede that point, with a drink in one hand and his third plate of dessert in the other. “I do know, though, that if you were in my shoes you’d have asked for a few favours before accepting the invitation.”

Malfoy laughed, and it actually sounded genuine. “I’ve been saying for years you’d have been an excellent Slytherin. Go on, then, what’s this favour?”

“I nearly was a Slytherin, you know,” Harry said idly. 

“Really?” asked Malfoy, clearly intrigued.

Harry knew he could capitalise on this. “Yeah, actually. Maybe I’ll tell you about it if you give me a hand with the house in London I inherited.”

“The Black house?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Grimmauld Place. We’ve tried to clean it up a bit over the past few years - it was used as a sort of base during the war - but nothing really improved. I was hoping you could maybe…” Harry gestured at the unrecognisable decor all around them.

“Turn it into a masterpiece of modern wizarding design?” Draco finished for him, with no small amount of pride.

“Well, yeah, I was going to say help brighten it up a bit, but that works too.”

Malfoy sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Potter. Do you have any idea how many unbelievably wealthy and influential people have requested my services so far this evening?”

Harry felt like an idiot. Of course Malfoy wasn’t going to help him get rid of Doxys and pick out a decent sofa when he could be swanning round fancy ballrooms splashing other people’s cash on priceless antiques.

“Still, I know that when she was young my mother loved visiting her cousins at that house. You’ve probably earned a few favours, so yes, I will help you. Where would you like to start?”

Harry was acutely aware that he was just standing there blinking like a moron. The place was such a nightmare that finding somewhere to begin seemed impossible, not to mention the fact that he’d assumed Malfoy would need a lot more persuading before he had to work out the logistics.

“Um…” he said articulately, watching Malfoy’s smirk grow with every second of silence that passed.

“I assume you have no clue, and since I’m stuck here for a little while longer, why don’t you just send me an owl with any questions you have, and when I’m free to leave I’ll come round and tackle the big decisions?”

“That’s brilliant, thanks, Malfoy. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Come to think of it, I actually owe you a life debt. I personally didn’t think interior design would cut it by way of repayment, but when you put it like that…”

They both laughed, and Harry, feeling oddly exhilarated, put down his drink and held out his hand for Malfoy to shake. He didn’t know why shaking hands with Malfoy felt so meaningful. Probably because he could count on said hand the number of times they’d offered each other any respect... or maybe Harry’d just had rather a lot to drink on what was always an emotional day for him. Oh well, if nothing else he was now one step closer to stopping fresh paint from sliding off the walls of Grimmauld Place.

**vi**

Malfoy - how should I be cleaning the fireplaces? Every time I think I’ve got the soot off the tiles they turn black again, whether I’ve lit the thing or not.

Potter,  
Don’t you have a house-elf for that sort of thing? I seem to recall Mother being especially fond of it. If you do insist on cleaning them yourself, you should be using a squeeze of murtlap essence in your solution.  
I’d also recommend keeping the fire lit as much as possible while you’re there, even if you’ve got your Floo closed to visitors, because the fireplace may start to take lack of use as an insult and be deliberately uncooperative.  
DM

Malfoy - murtlap essence worked; you’re a genius! Why isn’t it in any of the cleaning products already? That would’ve made my life easier. I’m trying to use the living room fire more for the Floo but the network defaults to the kitchen. Is there a way to change that?  
Also, Kreacher’s the house-elf you’re thinking of - he went to work at Hogwarts and became a sort of leader there in the Battle; I think he quite liked feeling important. I felt bad asking him to move back here by himself after all that. 

Potter,  
Excuse my curiosity, but I thought you had decided against actually living at the Black house: why the sudden desire to open its Floo channels?  
You have to deal with the bureaucratic nightmare that is the Department for Magical Transportation to switch over the main Floo. Much easier to open it as a new fireplace and tell your friends which to use. I have proposed a cleaning product containing murtlap to several major producers, but alas, they do not see it as cost-effective and would rather continue to waste people’s time with sub-par potions.  
DM

Malfoy-  
Living with Ron and Hermione was nice for a bit, but I thought I should give them some space to be a couple. It seemed silly to try and find my own place when I have a house (or at least, I have a house somewhere under all the dust - I swear we actually made a dent not too long ago but it’s just getting worse).  
As it is, I end up staying at theirs anyway a couple of nights a week, given the state of this place. Ron won’t spend the night here until I can guarantee them a spider-free space and I haven’t even started to sort out all five million bedrooms. He says he only stayed before ‘under extreme duress’ and got really stubborn about it. Sounded a bit like you, actually. That part was a joke. I mean, he did sound like you but I don’t mean that in an offensive way. I’m giving this to the owl before I can offend you more, because I really need your help with this place.  
HP

Potter,  
No offense taken: in fact, I doubt Weasley could ever convey the level of disdain I would feel if you invited me to stay in a house riddled with pests.  
There is a traditional, somewhat archaic, pureblood hierarchy of guest rooms, with which I doubt you’re acquainted. It’s less clear in Muggle-built houses like yours, but it can be helpful to know where to start, and which floors are likely to house which visitors. Dare I ask which room you’ve selected for yourself, and how you’re getting on with that? Or are you sleeping in the drawing room, as you reportedly did during the war, and avoiding dealing with the bedrooms entirely?  
DM  
P.S. If you are doing that, please don’t tell me. If you’ve faced the Dark Lord but can’t face a townhouse you should be retroactively sorted into Hufflepuff.  
P.P.S. You do not have five million bedrooms; you have eight. If I can renovate a sprawling mansion with multiple whole wings (not to mention the grounds), you can sort out the Black house without unnecessary hyperbole.

Malfoy,  
How did you know we stayed in the drawing room during the war?! You will be relieved to know that I am not sleeping there now.  
...Or am I?  
The difference between you and me is that you had some idea where to start on your house and nothing but time. I am trying not only to work every day (and prove I deserve to be an Auror by merit, not because I’m a ‘war hero’), but also deal with dozens of paint samples from shops across London, which randomly take flight to show off their colours and make everything a bloody mess.  
HP

Potter,  
Trying to do this by owl is ridiculous. Are you free to come and visit us for tea next week? Bring paint samples, fabric swatches, and whatever other rubbish has been foisted on you, as well as photographs of the rooms if you can get them. I would be delighted to make as many decisions as you will allow, because I have a feeling you will mess up terribly without my help. While that would be enjoyable to witness, it would be even more satisfying for me to know I was able to save you from yourself. Consider it just another installment towards our life debt - if you don’t, I may have to start charging you for my time, and I highly doubt you can afford me. That was a joke.  
DM  
P.S. Since interior design, though still a fledgling business, has become a rather lucrative endeavour already, I suggest you rethink your remarks about my not working every day.  
P.P.S. In _Harry Potter’s Hidden War_ , Rita Skeeter goes into great detail about you and Granger engaging in trysts on the drawing room settee while Weasley slept in a nearby armchair. Naturally, I assume every word is true.

Oh thank goodness, I need all the help I can get. I can do Thursday after work if that’s okay? Should I bring flowers or something for your mum?

Potter,  
Yes, but not narcissi. She will not see the humour in that.  
See you on Thursday.  
Don’t make any unsupervised changes before then, please.  
DM

**vii**

**Mungo Manor?**

Today, representatives from St Mungo’s Hospital issued an official statement confirming that they have taken ownership of Malfoy Manor, to be used as a rehabilitation and hospice site for long-term patients.

The press release stated: “St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries is delighted to announce that the Malfoy family has donated their estate in Wiltshire for us to use as a residential facility.

“The hospital houses many patients suffering from the long-term effects of spell damage and other maladies, especially in the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War, and our Healers have long asserted that many of those would make better progress outside a strictly clinical setting.

“We worked closely with the Malfoy family throughout the recent redevelopment of the Manor, and are pleased that the changes to the residence will enable us to provide living quarters, teaching spaces, gardens, and many other state-of-the-art facilities. 

“St Mungo’s firmly believes that this transition will be of tremendous benefit to a large number of patients, and we are grateful for the Malfoy family’s overwhelming cooperation and support.”

It is reported that when the transfer is final, Draco and Narcissa Malfoy will relocate to one of the family’s numerous properties in France, though rumour has it Draco has also purchased premises on Laburnum Way, from which he intends to run his up-and-coming interior design business. The formerly notorious thoroughfare just east of Diagon Alley has become a hub for magical artisans in recent years, housing, among others, _Five Quills Illustration Emporium_ , and last spring’s runaway success, _The Serene Graphorn Gallery_.

**viii**

He doubted Malfoy would be at work, let alone accepting clients at - he cast a quick Tempus and winced - six twenty-six a.m., but Harry still had to endure a couple more months of being a Junior Auror with its horrible hours, and he knew that by the time he got off work he’d be in no mood to talk about tables. He picked up a couple of pastries on his way to make the whole thing less painful for both of them, and knocked loudly on the door of Malfoy’s studio.

Malfoy answered after a couple of moments, looking rumpled and exhausted, and Harry immediately handed him a sickly-sweet mocha.

“You look like hell,” he said, unthinking. “Did you sleep here?”

Malfoy glared at him and tried to smooth his hair down, with little success, taking a large gulp of the coffee. “I think what you mean is, ‘Good morning, Draco, I’m terribly sorry to bother you at this ungodly hour’.”

Harry was unintimidated, and passed the bag of pastries over by way of an apology. “Yeah, okay, that too. My shift starts in half an hour and you said you’d have the kitchen and dining room stuff ready today, so I thought I’d see if you were in. I’m on patrol so I’ll be knackered by the time I’m done. You did sleep here, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question: Harry could see pillows piled onto a sofa in the corner, and Malfoy’s shirt was crying out for one of Molly Weasley’s extra-strong ironing charms.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.” Malfoy rearranged the sofa cushions quickly and gestured for Harry to sit down.

“Why did you sleep here?” 

Malfoy’s glare deepened. “You were made to be an Auror, you know. The rest of the population would say it’s too early for you to be questioning me like this.”

Harry just shrugged. “I thought you and your mum moved to France?”

“We did. But it’s _France_ , Potter. I can Floo straight into the house - as uncomfortable as it is over that distance - because I’m keyed into the wards, but there’s no fireplace here, and by the time I was finished last night the public Floos were shut and I didn’t have the energy to deal with the International Portkey Bureau.”

Harry frowned. “That sounds inconvenient. It also doesn’t sound like the first time.”

“For crying out loud, Potter. No, it is not the first time I’ve slept here. Yes, it is a pain in the arse. However, _someone_ requested two full size dining tables this week, and it took me till eleven last night to get your samples ready. And it’s a good thing I did too, since you’re here so bloody early.”

Malfoy waved his wand and a box flew over to land - unnecessarily heavily - in Harry’s lap. When he opened it, he saw a stack of incredibly detailed miniature dining tables, each one not only a different type of wood, but different in style and detail, right down to the tiny carvings. He picked up a particularly intricate example and held it up to the light. “Bloody hell, Malfoy. These are incredible.”

Malfoy sighed but couldn't help a smug smile slipping onto his face. “If you think these are good, just wait until you see the final products. Carpentry’s my speciality, you know.”

Something suddenly clicked in Harry’s head. “Like the Vanishing Cabinets.”

The smile vanished from Malfoy’s face. “Unfortunately, yes. Something from that experience has turned out positive, at least.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said automatically, but Malfoy waved it away.

“No need to apologise, Potter. Thankfully the majority of my clients will never need to know where this all started. I should have known I could count on you to make the connection, though.”

“I wasn’t… I mean, I just made the connection myself. I know you’re not, I dunno, using your powers for evil these days.” Harry winced inwardly. He couldn’t trust himself to make conversation with anyone this early, let alone Malfoy. 

“Some might argue that replacing the antique tables in your house is a pretty unforgivable sin,” Malfoy said eventually.

Harry laughed, relieved and surprised. “Almost as bad as the Auror department making me come in for seven in the morning.” He checked the time again, and stood up to gather his things as the Tempus charm reminded him that he had to be at work in eight minutes. “Can I take these with me?” he asked, picking up the box of tables.

“By all means,” said Draco, muttering some incantations over the box. “So you don’t break them,” he explained in response to Harry’s quizzical look. “I should have a couple of chairs for you to test out by Thursday or so - but if you show up at this time again, I can’t promise not to embed stinging curses into the seats.”

Harry winced. “At least that’d help me stay awake.” When he got to the door, he turned round. “My chairs aren’t that urgent, you know. Try and get some rest.” He didn’t need to look back to know that Malfoy was totally ignoring him.

It was nearly eight o’clock at night by the time Harry and his partner, Jasper, had finished writing up all the irritatingly minor incidents from their shift, and even though he was shattered, Harry couldn’t stop picturing Malfoy sleeping on that sofa. He told himself he was just walking the back way round to pick up some food on his way home, but knew it was inevitable that he’d end up on Laburnum Way again. He hoped Malfoy had made it home at a reasonable time and was getting some rest, he really did, but he couldn’t deny some perverse part of him was glad to see the lights were still on in the studio. He knocked once, then pushed the door open before waiting for a response.

“You’re still here,” he said, trying not to sound accusing.

“Astute, Potter. I see why the DMLE hired you.” Malfoy sounded exhausted, and looked it, too. His hair was falling out of its usually immaculate ponytail, and his shirt was still rumpled and open at the collar. He had his wand in one hand and some kind of tool in the other - what it was for, Harry could only guess, but probably something to do with the half-made chair hovering above the workbench. “Will you let me finish before you insist on continuing this morning’s interrogation?”

Harry nodded, and went to sit down. He’d never seen Malfoy really working before. Well, he’d been involved in the design plans for Grimmauld Place of course: consultations, unnecessarily complicated ‘mood boards’, fabric samples, all of that; but it was different from seeing the man actually breaking a sweat. Manual work was far removed from his image of the aristocratic Draco Malfoy, and therefore rather unsettling, but oddly mesmerising. Every movement was careful and deliberate, but clearly well-practised, and Harry was really bloody impressed to see the bits of wood transforming into actual furniture - beautiful furniture, at that.

Eventually, Malfoy lowered the chair down onto the ground and cast some protective spells before banishing it gently into a corner.

“I was just going to pick up something for dinner,” Harry said. “I assume you haven’t eaten.”

Malfoy tried to glower at him, but it was clear he was too tired to muster any real hostility. “You brought me a pain au chocolat, if you recall.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Malfoy, that was nearly thirteen hours ago.”

Malfoy shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”

“That’s it. I’m popping over to the shops to get some food. You are coming to my place, because at least it has heating spells set up, you are going to eat a proper meal, and then you can Floo back to your mum’s if you’re not too shattered, or you can use one of my five million bedrooms to get an actual night’s sleep.”

“You’d make an excellent house-elf, Potter,” Malfoy said, but Harry just rolled his eyes.

“If you die of starvation while making me a dining set I’ll never live it down. Not to mention that I still need you alive to tackle the rest of the house. Get your stuff and meet me outside in ten minutes.”

**ix**

“You want him to move in.” There was no expression in Ron’s voice, which Harry knew was a very bad sign. “You’re going to ask _Draco Malfoy_ to be your housemate.”

Hermione put her hand on Ron’s arm, gently. “I think we get the point, Ron.”

He turned to her, distraught. “If we have to get Harry committed, will you do the paperwork?”

“I’m not insane, Ron. And I haven’t asked him yet; I wanted to know what you thought first. Not that I couldn’t have guessed.”

“I think it’s a very kind gesture,” Hermione said, “I can’t imagine how exhausting it is to commute all the way from Bordeaux. Remember when I went to Belgium for the Summit on Werewolf Migration?” Ron rolled his eyes at Harry; they’d heard about the conference at great length. “We used the Floos to visit some of the settlements over the German border, and even that felt like being stretched too thin.”

“Exactly,” Harry said, “and he’s already round a couple of nights a week - mostly he takes Regulus’s old room, which I don’t use anyway. Says it’s the only bedroom that ‘retains some level of taste’.”

“See, that,” Ron pointed at Harry, “is just another sign that Malfoy’s dangerously deranged. You’ll end up waking up in the middle of the night to find him engraving _Toujours Pur_ above your bed.”

Hermione shuddered. “Ron, your pronunciation is atrocious.”

Ron just shook his head and looked back at Harry. “What about when you want Ginny to move in? You can’t just have Malfoy swanning about the place.”

“Ginny and I aren’t getting back together, Ron,” Harry said for the millionth time. 

“Don’t be too hasty, mate,” Ron argued. “She’s nearly done with the initial training, now; things’ll calm down a bit when she makes the Harpies’ team and then you’ll be able to - ow!”

Ron jumped - Harry thought Hermione must have kicked him under the table. “Well, you definitely won’t be getting back together if you’ve got him skulking around.”

Harry should have known this was a bad idea: it was usually better to ask forgiveness than permission with Ron. All he had to do was buy a round at the pub and do a bit of Ron’s paperwork for him, and even breaking up with Ginny was forgiven, if not forgotten. “You’ve been loads of help, thanks.”

Hermione gave Ron an intense glare, and eventually he said, “I suppose that it’s your house and you can invite Malfoy to stay for a bit if you want to.”

Harry laughed, shooting Hermione a grateful look. “Cheers, Ron, I appreciate your support. Don’t worry; he’ll probably say no, anyway.”

**x**

Harry was exhausted by the time they finished levitating all of Malfoy’s stuff up to the fourth floor - he’d said he’d left most of his things at his mum’s, but it seemed to Harry as if they’d been traipsing up and down the stairs for hours. He’d counted four boxes labelled ‘Haircare’ too, which seemed totally unnecessary. 

“I assumed you’d want to keep using this one, so I tried to clear it out a bit,” Harry said, manoeuvering an impossibly large trunk full of shoes into the corner of Regulus’s room. “I hope you don’t mind sleeping on the same floor as me - I know you said I should be using the master bedroom but it still smells like hippogriff, and I’m just more comfortable in Sirius’s.”

Malfoy shuddered. “You know full well that I retracted that statement the moment I laid eyes on the place. No one should be sleeping in the master until I’ve had an army of house-elves in to do a deep clean, and I’m still stuck on the first-floor bathroom right now.”

He gave the room an appraising look, muttering what Harry recognised as measuring charms, and then started to rearrange the furniture. Getting settled in already, Harry thought. Too late to back out now.

“I’m fine up here as long as you are,” Malfoy told him, “though if your girlfriend’s going to be round all the time, I’ll need your consent to reinforce the inbuilt silencing charms on the walls.”

Harry gave Malfoy what he hoped was a scornful look. “First off, I spent just as many of my teenage years in shared dorms as you did; my silencing charms are excellent. Second, don’t you read your friend Parkinson’s magazine? Ginny and I broke up ages ago. I’ve been on a couple of dates here and there but haven’t exactly had the time for anything much, what with work and everything.” Malfoy nodded, though he still looked a bit sceptical - and why shouldn’t he, when _Witch Weekly_ had a new story every week about Harry’s supposed conquests? He could only dream of having the energy to get through that many girls.

“What about you?” Harry asked. “Are you seeing anyone?” He couldn’t picture Malfoy bringing any snooty pureblood girls back here, not until the place was completely finished, but he didn’t relish the idea of trying to eat his breakfast while Pansy Parkinson sat across the table passing judgement.

Malfoy laughed, with a slight air of bitterness. “It’s pretty difficult to establish any kind of meaningful relationship when you’re under house arrest. I’ve had a few… encounters since my release, but no one I’ve wanted to bring home. Mother’s understanding in theory, but I don’t think she’s quite ready for me to start turning up with strange men.”

Well, that was… interesting. Harry hoped his face didn’t show how thrown he was, though when he took a second it did make a lot of sense, actually. “Well, if you do decide to, y’know, bring anyone back here, that would be okay,” he said lamely. “I mean, it’s your home too, now, I guess, and it’s none of my business, obviously, if that’s what you want to do.” 

Malfoy couldn’t contain his amusement. “Your acceptance is touching, Potter. Thanks.”

Harry grinned. “Shut up, Malfoy. If this is what I get for trying to be nice to you I’m not sure I should keep bothering.”

“I can see that moving in here was a great idea,” Malfoy muttered, but he shot Harry a surprisingly reassuring smile as he moved towards the wardrobe to cast an enlargement charm on it. Harry smirked a bit - this just confirmed that the trunk after trunk of clothing they’d brought up the stairs were completely excessive. The whole gay thing should’ve been obvious, really.

**xi**

“Wow,” said Ron, “I barely recognise the place.”

“That was the point, Weasley,” Draco said, smugness radiating from him as he stood at the end of the hall and watched Harry usher his friends in.

Draco had got rid of the gas lamps, denouncing them as ‘more trouble than they’re worth’. He’d refused to deal with the Muggle power companies, and somehow found a legal way to dismantle and banish all the gas pipes throughout the house, replacing the lights with magical sconces that came on with a warm glow when you walked in and got brighter or dimmer with a wave of your wand.

Most of the snake-themed decor was history, though Draco kept saying the word ‘heritage’ and shaking his head so Harry consented to keeping a few bits here and there: he’d actually become quite fond of the coat hooks, which responded to Parseltongue and never once let his robes and jackets fall on the floor.

The awful painting of Sirius’s mum was finally gone too, replaced with a mirror that was very critical of Harry’s hair but overall much more pleasant, and also made the entrance hall feel bigger.

“How did you get round the Permanent Sticking Charm?” asked Hermione, clearly impressed.

“Work smart, not hard, Granger,” Draco said smugly. “I just tore out that part of the wall and had it replaced. Great Aunt Walberga’s sitting in Gringotts with some of the portraits from the Manor, probably having a lovely time.”

Harry couldn’t help laughing when Hermione walked towards the dining room muttering, “Take out the _wall_. Why didn’t I think of that?”

When his friends had had the chance to ooh and aah over the rather spectacular new dining table and chairs, Harry started to bring up the food from the kitchen.

Ron’s eyes brightened immediately. “This looks amazing, mate!”

“I just threw the salad together,” he confessed, “Draco borrowed his mum’s house-elf for the rest.”

“ _‘Draco’?_ ” Ron mouthed at Harry, alarmed. Harry shrugged. When you were living under the same roof as someone, it just seemed weird to still be calling each other by your last names.

Hermione frowned, clearly ready to say something about passing house-elves around like objects, but Draco headed her off.

“Relax, Granger,” he said, “Sapphy was terribly excited to come. She’s learned all kinds of new recipes from the French elves, and I think she gets bored cooking for just Mother all the time.”

“Well, that’s okay, I suppose,” Hermoine conceded, still looking slightly troubled. Harry did notice her taking a second helping of the lamb, though.

“Granger, Weasley, I need your help,” Draco announced, and Ron and Hermione raised their eyebrows in terrifying unison. “I have to get Harry out of the house for a few days while I put his bedroom together. I was hoping he could stay with you.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry interjected quickly, glaring at Draco for springing this on them. “I can just sleep in a different room.”

“First, this is a huge undertaking, and to get it finished on schedule means working ridiculous hours. That not only means I’m likely to be in a foul mood, but also that your sleep will be disturbed, which is unfair given how busy your job is at the moment. Second, if you’re here while I’m getting it ready then you’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Merlin, why does everything he does have to be so dramatic?” Ron moaned.

“It’s not dramatic,” argued Draco, “I just want my efforts to be fully appreciated.”

“Dramatic,” Ron said, trying to disguise it as a cough.

Before the two of them could descend into a petty argument, Hermione said, “It’s fine, really, Harry, it’ll be nice to have you back for a bit. I’ve got a big presentation due for the Centaur Collaboration Committee on Friday so won’t be around much I’m afraid, but at least Ron will have some company. You might have to battle with Crookshanks though; he’s adopted your old room and you know how he is.”

“A bloody nightmare is how he is,” Ron added. “I put some Quidditch magazines in there for safekeeping and he tore them up and put the pieces in a giant pile on the middle of the bed, just to mock me.”

“I did tell you to put them in boxes,” Hermione pointed out.

“I was going to, but by the time I’d gone and found a sodding box the damage was already done. Can’t have been more than ten minutes. All four parts of the Cannons Spotlight Special, shredded into tiny pieces,” he said sadly. 

“Come on, Ron, you must admit that it was at least partly your fault. Anyway, I spelled them all together again, didn’t I? You’d never guess they’d been torn.”

“But it’s not the same. All the photos are ruined now; the players won’t fly properly where the paper was ripped.”

Harry gave Draco a pleading look. “This is why I moved out. Don’t make me go back there.” 

“It’s only for a week,” Draco insisted. “Thanks, you two. This will make everything much easier, especially as I have to get people in to replace half the walls, yet again. Why did everyone in the family think Permanent Sticking Charms were a good way to decorate?” 

“I _like_ Sirius’s pictures,” Harry said defensively. “We’ve talked about that. Photos of family and friends are much better than pointless artwork.”

“Art is not pointless,” Draco replied. “If you think that, you just haven’t been exposed to the right kind. I love my mother more than anyone else in the world, but if I had to choose between her picture on my wall and something by Georgianna Moonstone, it would be a nearly impossible decision.”

“Who’s that?” Harry asked, and Draco and Hermione both rolled their eyes.

“She does those paintings with the gemstones,” Hermione said, as if it would ring a bell. “They’re quite beautiful, really; her use of light sources is fascinating. There are a few in the magical gallery at the Tate Modern.”

“You mean the Malfoy Wing,” Draco put in, smugly. “My family have been patrons of the arts for generations.” 

“There’s a magical gallery at the Tate Modern?” Harry asked, feeling hopelessly uncultured. In his defense, he hadn’t been there since a particularly terrible primary school trip, when one of Dudley’s friends had knocked over a very expensive vase in the gift shop and blamed it on Harry. Uncle Vernon had gone through the roof when he saw the bill.

“Of course there is, Harry,” Hermione replied. “It’s through that unmarked door in the Turbine Hall, you know.”

“I don’t know, actually,” Harry said.

Ron snickered. “I’m surprised it’s an unmarked door,” he said. “If someone told me to go to the Malfoy Wing, I’d immediately head for the toilets.”

Hermione tried to give Ron a disapproving look, but in the end neither she nor Harry could help laughing. 

“I could have gone to Sunday lunch at the Zabinis’ today,” Draco announced with a long suffering sigh. “They appreciate me.” But he poured them all another glass of wine, anyway.

**xii**

Harry took one step into the bedroom and tried to take it all in. It was breathtaking, literally, and he found he had to force himself to exhale as he noticed detail after detail. It would take a good few hours in here poking around and getting to know the place again before he’d really be able to appreciate everything, he knew that, but some touches jumped out at him. An artistic print of a snowy owl - maybe art wasn’t so bad, after all - framed pictures of his parents and friends, a carved stag standing proudly on a shelf, occasionally shaking its head to show off tiny yet ornate wooden antlers. 

“I know Hogwarts was your first real home, so I tried to keep elements of that in here, but I’m physically incapable of throwing around gaudy Gryffindor colours, I’m afraid.” 

Draco didn’t need to explain that: the overwhelming feeling of the room was that it was home. The walls were a pale, warm gold - Tepid Cava, Harry thought the paint sample had said - which was reminiscent of Gryffindor tower in the way a dream is reminiscent of a place; with the same atmosphere but not quite the same vibrance. There was a dark red, ridiculously comfortable-looking armchair in the corner, because Draco couldn’t help taking the piss out of the Gryffindor aesthetic just a little bit, but it fitted in with the dark wood of the rest of the furniture, which made the room look like it belonged to a real grown-up.

“I used cherrywood as the main material,” Draco continued. “It represents good fortune and new beginnings, which seemed appropriate. The oil finish on the bed-frame contains a trace amount of concentrated Dreamless Sleep Potion - I first tried it in my own room at the Manor, when the war had just ended. It’s just enough that it makes you feel rested when you settle down for the night. It should be especially effective in a bed that big, particularly a four poster; like a cocoon, I suppose. I hope that wasn’t taking liberties: I noticed your potions in the bathroom and thought this would be an elegant way to meet your needs.”

Harry paused his perusal of the room for a moment to look at Draco. He was talking more than usual, clearly nervous. Harry almost laughed - there was no way he wouldn’t love the place, but it was sort of funny to see Draco so anxious, and he thought he’d leave it another minute or so before he allayed Draco’s worries. He was also far from annoyed about the Dreamless Sleep: his nightmares had been news since he was a teenager and he was hardly going to make a fuss about something that could actually help.

“Well? What do you think?”

This is the single greatest thing anyone has ever done for me, was what Harry thought. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever really, truly had my own place and it’s perfect.

“It’s brilliant,” he said eventually. “Really, I don’t have the words… I knew you were good but this is… how did you know exactly what I wanted when I did such a rubbish job of explaining it to you?”

Draco was clearly pleased with his response. “You didn’t do _that_ bad a job,” he replied, unconvincingly. “Besides, that’s why they pay me all those tons of Galleons. I can take any client’s wishes, even if they are for red and gold, and make them into something spectacular.” 

“I didn’t _just_ ask for red and gold,” Harry protested, but Draco just shook his head.

“‘I want it to be like Gryffindor Tower,’” he said in an unerring impression of Harry. “Warm, cosy, you know? With, uh, pictures of my friends, and my parents. I haven’t really thought much about it beyond that, sorry’.”

Harry wanted to protest, but it was a depressingly accurate rendition. He also had to admit that it was good to be in on Draco’s jokes now, even if he was still the butt of most of them.

Draco was smiling, with a slight air of smugness: Harry wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d got the disastrous design briefing dead-on or because the room had turned out brilliantly.

“You look happy,” Harry blurted out.

Something soft crept into Draco’s expression, and Harry almost had to look away.

Draco seemed to consider his response carefully, opening his mouth a few times before finally saying, “Of course I’m happy. I’m one of very few people in the world who knows exactly what Harry Potter likes in the bedroom. I’m going to make a fortune from _Witch Weekly_ with this insight.”

They both laughed, and Harry felt it was slightly easier to breathe. He knew his smile matched Draco’s as they stood together in silence, surveying the heart of what had, in Harry’s mind, finally become his home.

**xiii**

H,  
Pansy’s trying to get a promotion at work and says the ‘only way’ is if you let her do an exclusive look at Grimmauld Place. Apparently everyone wants to see inside your house - she tried selling it to me on the grounds that it’ll drive up my business, but I’m swimming in clients and it’s your home. What do you think?  
D  
P.S. I received forty equally hideous samples of brocade for the Clearwaters’ front room today. My eyes are bleeding.

D,  
I’ve no idea what to say to Parkinson - I don’t understand why _Witch Weekly_ are so desperate to see where I live. Wasn’t chasing me round to get a picture of my arse for ‘Rear of the Year’ intrusive enough for them?! I’m not crazy about the thought, to be honest, especially if she wants to get into my bedroom: the letters from crazy fans are inventive enough without them knowing what colour my sheets are.  
H  
P.S. If you want to escape the brocade, I’m going to the Leaky after work with Ron and the rest of our team as well as Hermione, Luna and their lot - you should come down. Lisa might be there too; I know you two love getting drunk and judging people’s outfits.

H,  
I’ll try and drop by if I get these mood boards done - I would love to gouge my eyes out to avoid all this hideous fabric but will try to hold off so I can critique some fashion faux-pas for Lisa. The sacrifices I make for you people are immeasurable.  
D

“Well, there’s the first fashion victim of the night. What on earth happened to you?” Draco stood at the end of the table, one eyebrow raised at Harry’s oversized DMLE t-shirt and undersized athletic shorts.

“Oh, mate, it was hilarious,” Jasper began, “we were all called out on a bust at some antique dealer’s in Knockturn. Someone owled to report a shoplifter and they sent a squad of us, just in case we could nab the owner for dealing in contraband at the same time. So we all show up, and there’s Harry, at the front, because he can’t help himself. He knocks on the door, all serious-like, and Ron and Terry go round the back alley just in case.

“No one answers. We go in, super cautious - the guy may have owled us but there’s still some dodgy shit going on down in Knockturn. Harry’s all, ‘Aurors, come out with your wand in the air!’ The whole place is dark and covered in dust sheets, really suspicious, like. Then suddenly there’s this scream like a banshee, and this thing falls on Harry, like out of nowhere. When the lights finally come on, Harry’s lying in the middle of the floor with this massive Kneazle sitting on his chest, and he’s covered in bright green paint!

“The owner’s staring at us as if we’re a bunch of nutters, so I ask him about the emergency owl and he says he never sent one. And then Ron and Terry come back round shouting that Harry’s walked up all cocky and everything - but got the wrong shop!

“So before we go to the right place, Harry tries to Vanish all the paint off his robes - but he’s in such a state that he accidentally Evanescos the entire lot! Had to slink back into the office practically starkers and nab what was left in the spare clothing bin - not that there was much choice there, obviously!”

Harry’s team laughed uproariously, and Harry tried to keep his face firmly planted on the table until they’d stopped talking about it. He chanced a glance up at Draco, who was clearly trying to find a balance between wanting to laugh at Harry’s expense and wanting to be on his side. The traitor chose the first option, but not before passing a pint Harry’s way. 

“Tom says there’s a hen party coming in later,” Draco said casually. “At least they’ll get to enjoy _Witch Weekly’s_ ‘Rear of the Year’ in action in those shorts. Did they come from the Aurors’ clothing supply or a prep school’s spare games kit?”

At least, Harry reasoned, Draco knew how to win over his colleagues. They hardly ever made Death Eater comments these days - and Harry was willing to be the butt of the joke (pun intended, he thought miserably) if that was what it took.

Harry put up with a whole hour and a half of being catcalled and ogled every time he got out of his seat before he called it a night. He told Draco to stay on if he wanted, but he insisted on heading back too - “Just so you don’t get mistaken for a rent boy on the way home.”

Harry was pleasantly tipsy, and only half-listening to Draco’s seemingly endless list of dinner suggestions - which on a Friday inevitably ended up being takeaway anyway - when Draco stopped suddenly.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” Luckily he looked more amused than annoyed. 

“Not really, sorry.” Harry shrugged. “We always end up getting Chinese so I zoned out after the first five or six options.”

Draco sighed dramatically. “Have I become so predictable in my old age? Fine, Chinese it is. Let me Apparate us; you’ve had more to drink than I have. You know, because of the shame and embarrassment.”

“Sad but true,” Harry agreed.

They reappeared in the living room, Harry clutching Draco’s arm for balance.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said abruptly, moving away.

Harry tugged him back by the sleeve. “Um, for what?”

“All those people staring at you, and making those remarks. _Witch Weekly_ wanting to get into your house and into your pants. I used to think you wanted all of the fame and attention. I didn’t realise it was like this.” Draco made a sweeping gesture. “I can make all the excuses I want about being young and an idiot, but sometimes it just hits me how awful I was to you because I was a jealous brat, and I can only admit it when I’ve had a few. So…” 

“You don’t need to apologise for that,” Harry said, holding Draco’s gaze. “That was years ago. You _were_ young, and you _were_ an idiot, and you’ve changed. Okay, I might be a little mad that you made me do a twirl so Lisa could see how tight these shorts are, but I know you weren’t being malicious so it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. It was a cheap laugh at your expense.”

“So what? We’re friends, and it was funny. Besides, if you want to talk about being famous; the main reason _Witch Weekly_ wants to nose around this place is because you’ve made it amazing. It was barely a house before you came along, let alone a home. Give yourself some credit.”

Harry could practically see the effort Draco put into holding back from saying more, and gave him a broad smile. “See, you’re not always right. Do you want to order something to eat while I get changed?”

“Oh, thank Merlin. If you want me to Incendio that entire outfit I would be glad to.”

“Sadly it’s got to go back to the department for other people to use.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Surely no one else in the DMLE can pull off shorts that short?”

Harry grinned. “Aha, so you do think I can pull them off!”

“I never said you couldn’t - I’ll even admit that _Witch Weekly_ may have been totally right about your arse. It doesn’t make it any less ridiculous that you - war hero, respected Ministry employee - spent most of tonight getting smashed, in hotpants.”

Harry suddenly realised that he was still holding onto Draco’s arm, standing far too close, and Draco had just - sort of - said he thought Harry had a nice arse, and Harry couldn’t tell whether he was feeling warm from the alcohol or from something else entirely. He opened his mouth, with absolutely no idea what he was going to say next, when a chime came from the Floo and he and Draco sprang apart.

“I’m going to change; you answer,” he said quickly, and practically ran out of the room.

He heard Draco exhale and pause for a second before walking towards the fireplace and muttering the charms to lift the wards and unlock the Floo. “Ginevra, nice to see you! Harry’s just popped to his room; he’ll be down in a second.”

Ginny. Shit. Harry banged his forehead against the wall a couple of times, then dashed the rest of the way upstairs.

**xiv**

****

****

**Amor-tension**  
By Pansy Parkinson

Avid followers of _Witch Weekly’s_ ‘Famous Flings’ section will know how closely we’ve been documenting the ups and downs of the relationship between war hero Harry Potter and rising Quidditch star Ginny Weasley.

Last week they made a rare public appearance together, sharing a cosy dinner at Diagon Alley’s popular vegetarian bistro, Dittany + Snowdrops (see p.74 for an exclusive voucher offering 5 Galleons off your meal!). Although they claim that they are now ‘just friends’, we know that our readers, and even some members of the _WW_ team, have been not-so-secretly hoping that the couple are once again heading towards their happily ever after.

While some rumours are quick to put this hope to bed, claiming Potter has moved on with various lovely ladies (see _“Potter? I hardly know her!”_ p.13), some sources close to the couple firmly believe there’s a chance that they’ll work it out. 

Speaking exclusively to _WW_ , our source claimed, “Harry and Ginny have been friends for a long time, and Ginny still dreams of them spending the rest of their lives together. She’s been making a real effort; going to visit him as often as possible with their packed schedules, and even giving him a season ticket to her games.” They went on to allege, “Ginny’s been so intent on getting him back on the same page that she’s been bringing love potions with her on their dates in the hopes of slipping some into his drink. She thinks a few sips will help him remember just how great they are together, and their genuine love and connection will take it from there.”

So far she seems to have been unsuccessful, but as we know from her status as the youngest Chaser ever to make the Holyhead Harpies’ first team, not to mention her contribution to the Battle of Hogwarts, Ginny Weasley is tenacious. Keep reading _Witch Weekly_ , your number one source of celebrity news, to see whether she gets her man!

 _43% of_ WW _readers say they WOULD use a love potion if it meant they’d get to live happily ever after with Harry Potter. Send us an owl with your views now!_

**xv**

Harry was so angry he decided to come in through the front door rather than the Floo, just so he could slam the door behind him as hard as possible. If it cracked Draco Malfoy’s immaculate paint job then that would be an added bonus. He stomped up to the drawing room and threw the copy of _Witch Weekly_ down in front of Draco.

“What. The Fuck. Is this?” he ground out. Draco, the slimy bastard, looked genuinely confused for a second as he picked up the magazine.

“It seems to me that Pansy must really want that promotion. It’s nasty stuff, but I don’t know what you expect at this point. She’s probably still mad that you won’t let her into the house.”

“I’m well aware of all that. What I want to know is, where is she getting all her misinformation?” Harry leaned over and unerringly prodded the phrase ‘sources close to the couple’, probably so easy to do because he’d spent a lot of the afternoon running his finger over the words, getting more and more worked up.

Draco frowned for a moment. “First of all, you and I both know that Pansy’s right about Ginevra’s motives, even if the love potion stuff is total rubbish. Second, if you’re accusing me of something, you’d better have some grounds to back it up.”

“Oh, I have grounds. You live here; I’m sure you’ve overheard some of my conversations with Ginny. I’ve also confided in you because I thought you were my friend, but apparently your relationship with Parkinson trumps that.”

“Do you really think that because Pansy was all over me when we were fourteen my loyalty is going to be with her? After all the time I’ve spent complaining about how much she’s tried to exploit our friendship?”

“Yeah, you complain to my face - but I’ve got my doubts about you claiming not to care about your social status. Maybe being an anonymous source keeps you in the pureblood loop without you having any accountability. Sounds like just the kind of thing you’d do.” 

“Correction: the kind of thing I’d have done six bloody years ago! I thought we were past all this childish nonsense; I didn’t realise I still had to work every day to prove myself worthy of the great Harry Potter’s trust. I’m your friend, for Merlin’s sake! Not to mention that you’re providing the roof over my head. What possible motive could I have to make up some hateful story and try to sell you out? I don’t even know Ginevra; we barely make small talk when she comes to visit you.”

Even though he knew this, Harry seized upon it. “You don’t know her or you don’t _like_ her?”

Draco threw his hands in the air. “Okay, fine, a bit of both. I don’t like when she marches into this house as if she owns the place saying she’s ‘just popping in for chat’ and then kicks me off my spot on the settee for hours, and I certainly don’t like how much anxiety she gives you just by showing up, but that’s hardly grounds for a smear campaign.”

“Maybe it’s more than that, then. Maybe you’re jealous.” As Harry said it, he knew he’d crossed a line. He didn’t need the deafening silence to tell him that.

Draco’s face closed off, and he suddenly looked too much like the horrible, entitled little boy he’d worked so hard to leave in the past. Harry felt his stomach sink.

“Jealous.” Draco made that one word sound like a mouthful of broken glass.

Harry’s anger abandoned him just when he needed it, and was replaced by blind panic. All he could do was try to play it off as a terribly misjudged joke. “Yeah, you admitted to admiring my arse the other night. Maybe you want a piece of me for yourself.” He immediately realised there was no way Draco would think he was joking. His words were cruel: hollow at best, a betrayal at worst.

“Potter,” Draco said coldly, standing up so they were eye-to-eye, “Go fuck yourself.” He walked over to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder, and stepped into the flames, heading for his mother’s house. Every movement felt like a punch in the gut to Harry, and the worst thing was that he absolutely deserved it.

Parkinson could have been citing almost anyone, he knew that. Dozens of poor waiters and bar staff who’d overheard him and Ginny having awkward conversations; loads of their colleagues, and friends, and friends of friends, who saw how they were together, secondhand snippets overheard in the pub. He couldn’t remember why he had been so sure it was Draco in the first place.

**xvi**

“I think part of you is very uncomfortable with him knowing you so well, Harry,” Luna stated matter-of-factly, stirring her tea precisely seventeen and a half times. “I don’t think you were cross with him about _this_ at all, actually. It didn’t matter who’d spoken to the press. You were looking for a reason to distance yourself.”

“Fat lot of good it does knowing that now, though,” Ron chimed in. Harry was grateful that Ron was at least trying to conceal his glee that Harry and Draco had fallen out, but he’d still been spectacularly unhelpful when it came to suggestions about how to fix things.

“Even if that’s the case, you didn’t have to be quite so nasty about it,” Hermione pointed out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss having Malfoy around, especially on pub nights. He’s the only person who’s even remotely useful at the quiz.” She put down her mug and looked at Harry. “Have you had any more ideas what to do to solve this? Clearly you need a new approach.”

Even after so many years, Harry couldn’t help squirming a bit inside under Hermione’s scrutiny. “Other than a Time-Turner, I’ve no idea. I’m sending the owl down a few times a week, but she always comes back in a terrible mood with the letters still sealed. I really need him back urgently now. The upstairs shower doesn’t work properly unless he’s in the house. He spent so much time renovating the bathrooms that the whole plumbing system likes him best.”

“So do you,” Luna added calmly.

Harry wasn’t surprised that no one argued with her, and he didn’t have the energy to fight his corner against all three of them. “Well?” he asked, “What should I do next?”

“You know him better than we do, mate,” Ron pointed out. “Though I remember at school he used to get those massive packages of sweets all the time, have you tried that?”

“Yes,” Harry replied, glumly. “I spent a fortune in the Honeydukes Gourmet section. He kept the gift but didn’t read the letter. That was three days ago and I’ve still heard nothing. Before that I even tried to ask Narcissa, but she sent me the most polite and beautifully handwritten ‘fuck off’ note I’ve ever read.”

“You could try and get Parkinson to publish something else,” Ron suggested. “I can see it now: ‘Harry Potter admits he’s a total prick, blames the trauma of war.’ I bet her readers would lap that up.” 

“That’s not funny, Ron,” Hermione said. Harry gave Ron a weak smile, because it actually would’ve been funny if he hadn’t felt so rubbish. “Also, Harry, I did some research to make sure, and even if it’s an outright lie Pansy’s source is protected, and so is Pansy - she’s very clear that everything’s ‘alleged’; _Witch Weekly_ are frustratingly good at weaseling out of accusations of libel.”

“I really appreciate you trying, but actually I don’t want to know who told her,” Harry said. “Part of trying to show Draco I trust him should be taking him at his word. If I tried to prove who did it, wouldn’t he just think I didn’t believe him and had to make sure?”

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. “That’s very insightful, Harry.”

“No need to sound so surprised,” he replied, nudging her with his elbow. “I’ve spent enough time trying to figure out how to unfuck this up: that’s just one of many fascinating thoughts I’ve had when I should have been working or sleeping.”

“You need a grand romantic gesture,” Luna said, totally seriously.

“I’m sorry, what?” Ron asked, aghast.

“Oh, I don’t mean it like _that_ ,” she added, though the glance she shot at Harry indicated that she definitely did. “Draco’s a simple person, really. He craves attention, and he loves to be loved. I’m sure you can come up with something.”

“I’m pretty sure dozens of letters and sixty Galleons’ worth of chocolates tick some of those boxes, and he’s still not budging,” Harry pointed out, finishing his sentence over Ron’s choked whimper of, “You spent _sixty Galleons_ on chocolate?”

“Perhaps - but Luna has a point,” Hermione agreed. “Maybe it would have been better if you’d showed up at his mother’s house yourself with the chocolates. He’d probably find some satisfaction in the extra mile you went to see him at - how did his design brochure describe it? - ‘an unplottable hideaway in the heart of French wine country’.”

“Not worth it, if you ask me.” No one had asked Ron. “I bet he’d bloody love knowing that you’d come all that way only for him to slam the door in your face.”

“Ron’s right,” Harry said, forlornly. “Besides, what then? I can’t just show up after what I said to him.”

**xvii**

Just a few days later, Harry was standing at the end of Narcissa Malfoy’s drive, wondering why he ever asked his friends for advice. The carefully-wrapped package levitating next to him, which had made Customs a total bloody nightmare, suddenly felt like overkill, like desperation. Another couple of hundred on chocolates would have done the trick, probably, along with a healthy amount of grovelling, but it was too late now.

“You killed the most evil wizard of our time; you can manage an apology to Draco Malfoy,” he told himself sternly, and, after only another couple of minutes’ hesitation, he walked up to the door and knocked firmly.

Draco answered, his face a blank mask, as if he’d known exactly who it would be. He stepped out and pulled the door shut behind him. “I hope you understand that I’m not inviting you in. Mother is very protective of me, and if you took one step into her house she would probably have you castrated with a single flick of her wand.” 

The two of them would have laughed at that image once. Now Harry didn’t know how to respond. He stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets, trying to bring himself to look Draco in the eye.

“Well, go on, then,” said Draco. “Why are you here?”

Harry couldn’t curb his instincts when faced with the cold, aloof version of Malfoy he used to despise so much, and snapped, “Why do you think I’m here, you idiot?”

Draco, infuriatingly, just raised an eyebrow. “I assume you’re here to beg me for forgiveness. With lavish gifts.”

“Well done, Malfoy. Ten points to Slytherin. Though I’ve got to say, after lugging this thing through Customs and the Portkey Bureau, not to mention trying to find this place, I’m hardly in the mood to throw myself at your feet.”

“Oh, forgive me, am I inconveniencing you? Has this been more or less torturous than the time you thought I’d sold you out to the papers?”

Harry wanted to tear his hair out. “You know what, I’m just going to find somewhere to stay tonight and come back tomorrow. There’s no point talking to you when you’re like this.”

“It’s not my responsibility to make this easier for you,” Draco said, entirely reasonably. “You were one hundred percent in the wrong and I am still waiting to hear a proper apology, and preferably a valid reason why you acted like the world’s biggest twat.”

“I really don’t know why I said those things,” Harry lied. “I’ve been trying to figure it out so I don’t do it again - you can ask everyone else if you don’t believe me; they’ve listened to me go on about this ever since you left.” Harry hoped Draco wouldn’t take him up on it, especially if Luna started getting into her theories, but he wanted Draco to realise how seriously he was taking the whole thing. “I was just angry at Parkinson, and at her mystery source, and even at Ginny a little bit, and it all got overwhelming and I took it out on you because you were there, and because I knew you could take it.”

“That sounds fair,” Draco remarked with a sneer. 

“It’s not fair. And it’s not exactly what I meant. I’m making such a mess of this.” Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “If you’d read any of the letters it would help; they were a lot more articulate.”

“I highly doubt it,” Draco muttered, and Harry thought - or perhaps just hoped - he could hear some affection in Draco’s voice, and decided to go for it.

“I don’t know what you want to hear. I don’t know if anything can excuse what I said. What I do know is that I was wrong, and I’m sorry, and I miss you. The whole sodding house misses you! And I’m certainly not going to be able to make amends if you’re hiding all the way out here.”

“The house misses me?” At that point Harry knew he had Draco’s attention.

“You’re the one who keeps going on about how magical houses have their own personalities, and Grimmauld Place definitely misses you. The plumbing’s been awful, and there’s dust on the doorframes that just won’t budge.” He started to count the list on his fingers. “The sofa cushions keep deflating themselves so I can never get comfortable, the fires are constantly dying out for no reason, the kettle’s started whistling Celestina Warbeck songs when it’s not even on the boil; even the Dreamless Sleep stuff on the bed frame isn’t working any more.”

“Do you think the last one might be your conscience keeping you awake, rather than some kind of house-wide vendetta?” Draco asked, unable to hide his amusement now.

Come to think of it, that made a lot of sense. “Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

They actually smiled at each other for a second, and Harry felt calm for the first time in what seemed like ages.

“All right then, Harry. I’m considering accepting your apology… but first, I’m dying to know what’s in that package.”

Harry’s embarrassment returned in full force. “It’s a bit much, really, but Luna kept going on about grand gestures, and I know you’ve wanted this - well, something like this - for ages. It took a lot of negotiating but it’s yours. Kind of a gift to the house, too. I figured maybe it’d start to like me as much as it likes you.”

Draco tilted his head to one side, clearly pondering all the possibilities.

“You should probably open it inside,” Harry added quickly. “It’s under environmental stabilising charms but that might be safest. That’s why I couldn’t shrink it.”

Draco’s eyes widened, realisation starting to dawn. “Harry, what did you do?”

“I couldn’t actually get your favourite: it’s still on display, and it belongs to some anonymous collector who’s even richer than you. But then I spoke to her agent, and threw my name around a bit to get into the studio. It turns out she’s a fan - of yours as well as mine, actually, and of the contents of my Gringotts vault - so she let me take my pick and I just bought the one that felt the most you; I really hope it’s okay.”

“Harry, do shut up, please.” Draco must have got closer while Harry was talking - well, babbling - and he put his hands on Harry’s arms, holding him in place, while he looked him in the eye and asked slowly. “Are you trying to tell me that under that brown paper is an original work by Georgianna Moonstone?”

Harry nodded mutely, idly wondering how much wider Draco’s eyes could get before they popped out of his head, like in the cartoons Dudley used to watch on a Sunday morning.

“You… are the most ridiculous, infuriating, wonderful person I have ever met,” Draco said eventually. He leaned in closer and murmured, “I’d already forgiven you, you know. The chocolate was more than enough.” Then, so quickly Harry wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t imagine it, Draco pressed a firm kiss onto his lips, before opening the front door with a flick of his wand and striding inside, with the painting following him obediently.

**xviii**

“It is rather nice, isn’t it?” Luna said, walking up close to take a proper look.

“Nice?” Draco replied, with barely concealed irritation. “It’s beyond nice. It’s a masterpiece. It’s possibly one of Moonstone’s greatest artistic accomplishments to date.”

Harry tried not to laugh. It had been like this ever since Draco had moved back in: he suspected that in a matter of weeks, everyone they knew would have been forced to traipse up the stairs to Draco’s room and admire his painting.

“Harry, tell her.” 

To be honest, Harry did think it was beautiful. The colours were rich and vibrant, but it had enough open areas to balance the intensity. The artist’s signature moonstone-infused pigments seemed at first glance as if they’d been splattered on at random, but when you looked from different angles the areas where they glowed softly were clearly careful and deliberate, to create real depth. 

Not that Harry knew the first thing about art. He’d just picked a painting that felt right and looked a bit like Draco’s favourite, ‘Eclipse in Jade’, and then hoped like hell it would fit in the smaller bedroom. It didn’t, really, but Draco had messed about with measuring charms for a while and then announced, “Sod it, it can be its own feature wall,” before letting it take up almost the whole space opposite the bed.

“Draco’s right,” Harry agreed. “In fact, I’m tempted to send an owl to Pansy Parkinson right now and invite her to do that Grimmauld Place special edition, solely in honour of this painting. Maybe _Witch Weekly_ will give us some cash to make up for how high the insurance is on it.”

Draco hit him on the arm lightly. “Harry, don’t be a prick.”

Luna smiled indulgently at them, then turned back to the painting, tilting her head. “It looks like you, Harry.”

Harry tried angling his head to see what she saw, but to him it still looked like colours and shadows and spaces.

Draco was frowning. “It’s _abstract_ ,” he told her.

“Which means I can interpret it however I like,” she pointed out, “and it reminds me of Harry. How did the song go, again? ‘His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a blackboard’... those colours are here, and here, and there, and it shines like you.”

“‘I wish he was mine, he’s really divine; the hero who conquered the Dark Lord’,” Draco finished, nearly dissolving into hysterics. “That was such a good day.”

Harry groaned - some things definitely did not get less embarrassing with time. How did Luna, who hadn’t even been there at the time, still manage to know all the words to that horrible Valentine? “That’s not green like my eyes, that’s Slytherin green,” he pointed out, trying to change the subject, “and the silver bits are very Slytherin, too. I picked it because I thought Draco would like it.”

“I think he likes it _because_ it looks like you,” Luna said patiently.

Draco’s residual laughter died down, and they all looked at the picture in silence for a moment. “Hold on, I’m starting to see what you mean about it reminding you of Harry,” Draco said eventually. “It’s a successful piece, but you can’t tell how much of that is deliberate and how much is a happy accident. To the untrained eye, it’s also a complete mess. That sums him up, really.”

Harry laughed, slightly indignantly, but Luna didn’t. She just looked at Draco intently. “What’s it like to the trained eye?” she asked.

Before Draco could reply, Sapphy appeared with a crack. Harry never would have pictured himself as a dinner party person, but with her as guest-chef and dining tables that felt a bit too big with just two of them, he actually didn’t mind hosting every now and again. Draco had to stay well away from the kitchen, though: his last and only attempt to cook something more elaborate than a stir fry ended when he launched a tray of potatoes across the room at Harry, yelling, “This is nothing like Potions, you absolute bastard!”

“When Master is ready, lunch is served,” Sapphy said with a sweeping curtsey, before Disapparating back to the kitchen. 

“To answer your question,” Draco murmured as he started to usher Luna towards the stairs, “if you know what you’re looking at, it’s spectacular.”

Clearly Harry wasn’t meant to hear that, let alone be able to interpret it, so he chose to ignore both the remark and the weird fluttering feeling in his chest. 

“We should get down there,” Draco continued, louder. “I don’t think Weasley will forgive me if the food gets cold while we’re up here ‘making googly eyes at that sodding painting again’.”

Harry cracked up at his spot-on rendition of Ron, who had refused to come and look at it for the ‘millionth time’, and even told Hermione, “If you love me you’ll keep me company down here: I’m starting to think you and Malfoy are going to run off together and move into some poncy art gallery.”

Luna stopped and looked between Harry and Draco. “It’s good that you two are together again. When it was only Harry here, the energy wasn’t right, and it’s not just because of all the Nargles you’ve got in the plants downstairs.”

Harry caught Draco’s eye and grinned, but for some reason Draco’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he looked away first. “What can I say? This house adores me. I’ve certainly changed things for the better round here."

“Oh, certainly,” Luna replied, casting a meaningful glance back at Harry before she continued seamlessly, “Rolf did tell me last time we were here that he was terribly worried about the Fiddle Leaf Fig in the dining room, though: we think that’s where the Nargles might be. It’s essential you take care of them now, because if they migrate to the Peace Lily your equilibrium may be threatened.”

Harry, feeling slightly off-balance for some reason that probably wasn’t to do with the Nargles, stayed back for a moment to carefully close the door to Draco’s room. It was weird, really, how easily he’d switched to thinking of it as Draco’s. He’d been so worried about moving into what had been Sirius’s room, even more so about letting Draco live just across the hall in Regulus’s, but he could barely recall that anxiety now. Sometimes he would open a door in the house and see a flash in his mind’s eye of what it used to be like, but all that did was make him more amazed at how seamlessly the dark, musty inheritance he’d never wanted had become his favourite place in the world.

**xix**

“You don’t have to go, you do realise that, don’t you?” Draco asked, handing Harry a glass of wine then pouring one for himself. “You don’t owe her anything.”

Harry brushed his hair back and sighed. He felt as if they had the same conversation every time he saw Ginny. “I know you don’t get it, but it feels like the right thing to do. Yes, maybe part of her does want us to get back together, but I can’t just refuse to see her. We’ve been friends for a really long time.”

Draco scoffed. “As if you’re going to remain friends if you carry on like this. You’ll either grow to hate each other or end up married within a year just because you were too nice to stand up for yourself.”

“Why do you always make it sound like I don’t have a choice in any of this?”

“Because every time she calls, you answer. Every time she Floos in, you stop whatever you’re doing to spend time with her. It’s admirable that you’re trying so hard to do the right thing, but where are your feelings in any of this? You’ve cancelled work drinks more than once because she showed up out of the blue, and been really annoyed about it, if you recall. In fact, you and I are meant to be having Muggle film night this evening, in case you’d forgotten. I got the only white wine you like and everything.” Draco folded his arms and pouted like a child who’d been deprived of his favourite toy. It would have been funny had Harry not felt so horribly guilty.

“I’m sorry. I can stay, if you want? She’s made reservations, but I can tell her I had plans already.”

Draco laughed, slightly unpleasantly. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t put you in that position. Unlike Ginevra, I won’t take it personally if you have a… scheduling conflict.” He pointed his wand at the half-full wine bottle, floating it along in front of him, and headed out of the kitchen, stopping in front of Harry. He put his hand on Harry’s shoulder for a moment. “I’ll be here when you get back, if you decide you’re finally ready to have an honest talk with someone about all this. I’ll even try not to say I told you so.”

Harry sipped his wine and stared at the door. He knew Draco was right about Ginny - and so were Hermione, and the guys from work, and Pansy sodding Parkinson… even Ron, though he only spoke up when his sister had particularly annoyed him - but he wasn’t ready to admit it to himself. He’d loved her so much, back then, and he _did_ owe her some level of...loyalty, whether his friends could understand that or not. 

It had to mean something, though, that every fibre of his being would much rather spend the evening getting slightly pissed and listening to Draco Malfoy’s commentary on Muggle cinema. 

**xx**

“I know that with my job too it’s a bit trickier, but I’ve been feeling loads better about the future - Harry, are you listening?”

Harry wasn’t entirely listening, but he gave himself a pass because Ginny had been saying the same thing in different ways since they’d sat down. “I’m listening, Gin, but -”

“No, don’t ‘but’ me. We’ve been going round in circles. I love you and think we would be great together, but for some reason you refuse to give it another try. Instead, we’re ‘trying to be friends’ or ‘seeing how it goes’, or whatever you want to call it, as if we don’t know each other inside and out.”

“That’s just it, Gin, we _don’t_ know each other inside out any more.”

“That’s rubbish and you know it. You just don’t want to commit to me. You’re scared of marriage and kids and being a grown-up, but you don’t see that it’s another adventure for us to go on together.”

Harry could picture it, and she was right, it did scare him. He imagined standing by her side, seeing their children off on the Hogwarts Express, hating the fact that they were old enough to leave, because now he’d be alone at home with Ginny. Ginny, the supposed love of his life, who didn’t want to hear about his job because she found Auror work unnecessarily dangerous after their experiences in the war. Ginny, who didn’t want to meet his colleagues for that same reason, but forced him to have dinner with all her teammates, which he hated, because they were always on strict athletic diets and only wanted to talk about tactics. 

“I don’t want that,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I don’t want that. Marriage, kids, everything else. I don’t want that with you.”

She stared at him, clearly trying not to cry, and he felt awful that one of the toughest people he knew had been reduced to tears by his words. 

He pushed his hair off his face and forced himself to look at her. He knew that he owed her a proper explanation, something definitive and final, as much as he hated the idea of hurting her. “We’ve already tried and it’s not right between us. Our lives, our jobs, everything - they don’t work together. And neither do we, any more. I thought we agreed on that.”

She wiped the tears from her face and lifted her head up - Harry was proud, if he had any right to be, that everything they’d been through hadn’t diminished her strength. “I just… it all seems so perfect, in my mind. Like our future’s mapped out for us. I know it feels like ages ago that the war ended and you had to suddenly be an adult really fast, but it wasn’t. We’re only just starting to figure out who we are and who we can be together, and I think you’ve been too quick to write us off.” 

Harry stared at her. “Gin, I’ve spent most of my life living what was mapped out for me, and it didn’t make me happy, a lot of the time. You and I were best together together when we were friends, and I reckon if we carry on like this, we won’t even be able to salvage that much.”

Ginny didn’t reply, just grabbed her bag and stood up. She paused, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end just squeezed his hand, hard, and was gone. 

He was relieved, yes, but the adrenaline rush of finally saying the words, finally standing up for what he wanted - or didn’t want - wore off quickly and he just felt empty. Tired, drained, sad that someone so important to him for so long had drifted so far away. _Witch Weekly_ were going to have a field day, too, which only made the whole thing worse.

**xxi**

After the evening he’d had, Harry was hoping to come in quietly and just go to bed without rehashing every detail of the disastrous dinner – but this was relying on Draco Malfoy not being a nosy bastard, and was, Harry realised, a plan doomed from the start. 

“You’re home early,” Draco commented from the sofa when Harry Flooed in. 

“Yeah, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt - whatever you’re doing,” Harry replied lamely. Draco had clearly abandoned film night - it was rubbish by yourself anyway - and surrounded himself with dozens of seemingly identical fabric swatches. At that point Harry neither knew nor cared what so much yellow was doing in his drawing room. 

“I’m trying to narrow down the curtains for Greg and Millie’s nursery, and you are a welcome distraction.” Draco put down the sample he was holding and looked at Harry for an uncomfortable moment. “You look like hell; what happened?” 

Harry waved him off, “Oh, you know, just... a bad evening. I’m gonna make some tea and head to bed I think, do you want a cup?” 

“Bad how? What happened with Ginevra?” 

“She hates you calling her that, you know.” 

“And I hate that she makes you come home looking ten years older. What happened?” 

“I really don’t want to go into that now. You said you were here to talk if I’m ready, and I’m not ready for anything except a good night’s sleep.” Harry turned from the room and started towards the kitchen. 

He made it about two steps before somehow – did he Apparate? - Draco was in front of him, arms folded. “I’m not trying to be pushy. But this thing with Ginevra – I don’t even want to call it a friendship – is making you miserable, and not only does that make the mood in this house oppressive and uncomfortable for me, but also -” Draco paused, put his hands on Harry’s shoulders to stop him from pushing past and running away- “every time you come home you just seem sadder and sadder, and I can’t sit back and watch anymore. She’s holding you hostage, and you deserve better.” 

Harry could barely speak, just shook his head. "I told her how I feel, and I really think she got it. I’m not sad, not really. I know everyone seemed to think it was ‘meant to be’ or something, and it definitely wasn’t - but I’ve closed the door completely, now, and it’s hard. I suppose my future’s really all up to me, and this just makes it even more obvious that I haven’t got a clue what to do with it.”

Draco looked just as lost as Harry felt, and Harry couldn’t read his expression, couldn't look away. “I’m not going to be another person who tells you how to live your life. But, if I know one thing, it’s that you made the right choice. Ginny Weasley could never make you happy.” Draco closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. “But I can.” 

Harry knew his shock must show on his face. They’d been ignoring this, this _thing_ between them for so long that sometimes Harry was sure it was all in his head. He just stared at Draco, watched as he licked his lips, swallowed, and repeated, more confidently this time, “I can make you happy. If you’ll let me.” 

Harry wanted to cry, to run away, to throw his arms around the man in front of him and never let go... but all he could do was stand there, frozen, as Draco gently moved his hands up to Harry’s face, cradling his jaw as if he were something precious. Harry felt paralysed as Draco held his gaze and moved in closer, and it seemed like a lifetime before Draco’s lips brushed against his. Draco pulled back, just for a moment, resting their foreheads together, searching Harry’s eyes for some kind of signal. 

Only then did something in Harry snap, and he was leaning in and suddenly he was kissing Draco Malfoy – holy crap, he was kissing Draco Malfoy – long and hard and deep, and somehow his arms ended up round Draco’s waist, pulling them even closer. 

When they eventually broke apart, there was a kind of awe on Draco’s face and Harry knew his expression was the same. 

“This is really happening,” Harry found himself muttering, as if still unsure, and Draco’s only response was to nod, whisper Harry’s name, and lean in to kiss him again. 

Hours could have passed for all Harry knew as they stayed locked together, sometimes taking a moment to stare at each other in affirmation, but mostly just kissing each other as if it were as essential as breathing, trying to get as close as possible. Harry felt that maybe, if they did this long enough, it would somehow make up for all the time they’d lost by pretending this heat, this tension between them wasn’t there.

Some part of Harry eventually found the wherewithal to ask, “Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

“Not that I don’t want to - because I very, very much want to,” Draco replied, stroking Harry’s cheek, “but are you sure? You’ve had a stressful evening, and I understand if you’re not ready for anything else right now.”

“Draco. You’re being... weirdly nice, and I appreciate that after the night I’ve had, but right now I need you to shut up and come to bed with me.”

Draco laughed breathlessly. “Have I told you lately that I adore you?”

Harry was shocked. “I don’t think you’ve told me that ever.”

“Well, I do, you know.” Draco brushed back a lock of Harry’s hair, which promptly flopped back over his face.

Harry swallowed, feeling exposed, but managed to hold his gaze. Clearly seeing whatever he was looking for, Draco hugged him tight, and with a familiar crack they Apparated into Harry’s bedroom.

Harry let Draco push him back onto the bed and climb on top of him, and this was far, far better than before, feeling the weight of Draco’s whole body pressed against him, but it still wasn’t enough. He started trying to open Draco’s shirt, but the tosser always wore these expensive faerie-made things with stupidly tiny buttons. 

He heard himself almost growl in frustration, and Draco said, “If you even think about tearing it, there’ll be hell to pay,” before somehow undong the whole thing one handed, and pulling Harry to sit up so he could tug his t-shirt over his head. 

Although Draco wasn’t doing much flying or anything near Harry’s punishing training regime, he was still really bloody fit. The manual parts of his job were paying off especially, Harry observed, because Draco had very nice arms. He didn’t think he’d ever paid attention to anyone’s arms before… but then again, he hadn’t ever paid that much attention to another man’s body before. When he thought about it, though, his girlfriends had always been slim and athletic, too; perhaps he had a type. If he did, Draco was the perfect example; all pale and lean and gorgeous.

He was surprised to find that the faded Dark Mark on those amazing arms didn’t really bother him; but the feathery Sectumsempra scars down Draco’s chest did, and he took his time to kiss them, as if in penance.

“Sorry,” he said, and Draco tugged him into another intense kiss. 

“Believe me, I’m over it,” he murmured reassuringly,

Harry was torn, as he pulled Draco back down, between wanting to get his hands and lips on every inch of skin and the need to look into Draco’s eyes, kiss his lips, reaffirm that this was actually happening between them; and every time they made eye contact, Draco was smiling that rare, fond, beautiful smile. 

Harry thought he knew all there was to know about Draco, so it was exhilarating to learn that kissing the side of his neck made him inhale sharply, and that biting his ear elicited this choked-off gasping noise, which may have been Harry’s new favourite sound in the world. Even though – or perhaps, precisely because - they had spent years trading slurs and insults, there was something especially thrilling about Draco’s familiar cut-glass accent muttering swear words under the onslaught of pleasure.

They were both breathing heavily with the intensity now, hips rocking together, and Harry needed more, needed to feel all of Draco’s skin against his own, some coherent part of him aware that coming in his pants like a teenager wasn’t exactly what he wanted for their first time together.

He fumbled with Draco’s fly, and once again Draco took pity on him and undid it himself, climbing back off the bed to pull his trousers off and tugging at Harry’s, raising an eyebrow at Harry’s ratty old boxer shorts.

“It’s not like I was prepared for this, okay? Next time I’ll do laundry before I let you accost me,” Harry said defensively.

Draco just laughed, and Harry found himself laughing too - had he ever felt this joyful in bed with someone before? - stopping only to gasp when Draco pressed a proprietary hand onto his dick. Draco’s expression turned more intense, and he squeezed again with a smirk before bending down to pull Harry’s pants off completely.

Harry’s immediate instinct was to try and hide from the scrutiny, but there was nowhere to go, and it was reassuring and terrifying all at once to see Draco looking at him as if he were a three course meal, his eyes darting between Harry’s face and Harry’s dick, indecisive.

“Shit, I want -” he began, and leaned down to kiss Harry’s lips, his neck, his chest, his belly - Harry absently felt relieved that he still kept up with his training exercises; how embarrassed would he be right now if he’d skipped all those crunches? - sucking and licking and biting so slowly and intently that Harry thought he was going to lose his mind before finally, with no warning, he took Harry’s dick into his mouth.

Harry gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation. He found himself muttering, “Fuck, _please_ ,” with no real idea what he was asking for other than for this not to end. He reached one hand down to push through Draco’s hair, pulling it out of its tie so it fell loose around his face. Though his eyes kept trying to close with all the sensations racing through him, all Harry wanted to do was keep watching: the sight of Draco, messy and gorgeous, sucking Harry’s dick with single-minded focus, just turned him on even more. He was practically hyperventilating, hips thrusting up into that warm, wonderful mouth almost of their own accord, and just when it was all getting to be overwhelming Draco sat back up, and Harry practically whined with disappointment.

“I’d much rather keep my hair back while I’m doing that, you know,” Draco said with no real reproach. He pulled off his own underwear, and Harry took a moment to admire the view before tugging Draco back down on top of him so they were pressed together, skin on skin, from head to toe, and this was what Harry wanted, not quite as good as Draco’s mouth - how could it be, really? - but amazing in its own right; every inch of him against every inch of Draco, perfectly matched.

Their kisses were sloppier now, hot and intense and messy, sometimes more like breathing the same air than actually snogging as they rocked against one another, the friction of their dicks pressing together at the centre of Harry’s awareness.

He was getting close again now, and he wanted Draco right there with him, so he reached one hand down between them and curled it around Draco’s dick. The angle was awkward, and Harry was vaguely aware that he had no idea what was doing, but he didn’t let that bother him as he followed his instincts, touching Draco as he would himself, and he was rewarded with gasps and a litany of, “Please, please, please...”

Then Draco reached down, too, and it was cramped and awkward and wonderful as they jerked each other; eyes fixed on one another, wrapped so tightly together that Harry couldn’t tell where he ended and Draco began, and suddenly it was all too much. He tried to tell Draco that he was coming but he couldn’t form words before his orgasm overtook him, but it was okay because Draco was crying out and shuddering against him, too, and he could feel them both shaking until the pleasure started to subside and reality crept back in around the edges of his awareness.

Draco lay down, still smiling, and stretched like a satisfied cat. “I think I left my wand downstairs,” he said eventually, gesturing between the two of them “Do you mind?”

Harry’s brain started working again and he leaned down to fumble for his wand in the pile of clothes, relieved to find his glasses down there too, perfectly intact. He cast a quick cleaning charm before flopping back onto the bed. Draco curled against him, head on Harry’s shoulder, their legs tangled.

“I can’t believe…” Harry began. “I mean, this. That was… You...”

“Articulate as ever,” Draco observed. 

“Shut up,” Harry replied, turning to kiss him. “You’re going to be even more insufferable now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco said with a yawn. “I’m a delight. You love me.”

“Yeah.” Harry knew it was written all over his face. Everything he’d buried; everything he felt about Draco was right there in the open, and somehow, he wasn’t scared at all. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

“Good,” said Draco softly. “Same.”

“I know you love yourself,” Harry replied automatically, trying to adjust his pillows without dislodging Draco, who had made himself comfortable against Harry’s side, as if he were exactly where he belonged.

“This is what I get for trying to be nice,” Draco complained. “Maybe I should go back to being a total prat to you.” His voice changed to the sneer Harry remembered from school. “Of course I love myself, Potter; what’s not to love? I have a marvellous job, excellent bone structure, two living parents, and a bigger penis than you.”

Harry couldn’t keep a straight face. “Low blow, Draco, low blow.”

“Don’t worry; there aren’t any grounds for complaint,” Draco said with a small smirk. “Besides, I love you, remember?”

Harry felt as if his heart were going to beat its way right out of his chest. Somehow it was different to hear the words themselves, even though Draco had already sort of told him.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, tentatively.

Draco tightened his grip on Harry for a moment. “I must admit that I’m impressed,” he murmured eventually. “I was a little afraid I’d have to spend most of tonight nursing you through some kind of sexual identity crisis.”

Harry thought about it, because he hadn’t before. Then again, maybe that was because there wasn’t anything to think about. “You’re _you_ ,” he said simply, by way of explanation.

He was rewarded with that beautiful, soft smile, and leaned in for a long, deep kiss.

“We should get some sleep,” Harry said, reluctantly. “Bank Holiday pub crawl tomorrow.”

Draco groaned. “Do we have to? I have some much better ideas for how to spend the day, and they all involve staying in this bed.”

“It’s your tradition,” Harry pointed out.

“It’s _Blaise’s_ tradition,” Draco corrected him. “Merlin knows why he started inviting your lot.”

“It’s because he thinks Ron’s a hilarious drunk. He’s not wrong.”

Harry remembered the first pub crawl: he’d been at the bar in The Thunderbird, trying to appear sober enough to order another round, when he’d looked at everyone and got a bit teary thinking how proud Dumbledore would have been of the inter-house unity. He’d said as much to Ron, who proposed a round of shots in Dumbledore’s honour, and it all got rather blurry from there.

“I don’t care how funny it is watching Weasley get smashed,” Draco said petulantly, “you can’t expect me to spend the whole day out drinking with our friends and not be able to touch you.”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to touch me?” Harry asked with a frown.

“Because, as much as I adore you, I’m not sure it’s the best idea to tell everyone we know about this before we’ve even been together for a day.”

“That makes sense,” Harry admitted, “I haven’t really got my head round it yet.”

Draco started laughing and Harry looked at him, confused. “‘Getting your head round it’ was one of my many exciting bedroom plans,” he clarified with a smirk.

Harry blushed. “I’ve no idea how to go about doing that,” he admitted.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “It’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“I _know_ that, but…”

“Teeth behind your lips, breathe through your nose. Beyond that, it’s all down to practice. Trust me, I’m willing to let you dedicate many long, hard hours to practice.”

Harry knew he was still blushing, and was thankful that Draco had decided to punctuate his instruction with kisses against Harry’s collarbone rather than looking him in the eye. Somewhere between the thought of doing _that_ and the sensation of Draco’s lips and teeth and tongue across his chest, Harry was starting to get turned on again. He gently tugged on Draco’s hair, drawing him up for a proper kiss. Draco made a small, incredibly hot moaning noise in the back of his throat, so Harry pulled his hair again, lightly, and was delighted to elicit the same response.

“We’re not going to get any sleep tonight,” Harry said, without a hint of remorse.

Draco laughed and kissed him again, deep and wet and filthy. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

**xxi**

They were at the fifth pub, pleasantly buzzed (and totally exhausted) when Harry realised just how bad an idea this was. It wasn’t only the fact that Sneezewort was a terrible microbrewery-cum-garden that made its own beers, inspired by commonly-used potions (Harry would rather be drinking drain cleaner than Skele-gro Stout): he was also having a very hard time keeping his hands off Draco. 

Luckily, they were sitting next to each other, so it was easy to press their legs together under the rather cramped table with no one raising an eyebrow, but Draco looked especially gorgeous in the afternoon sunshine, and some of his shiny blond hair had come out of its ribbon on the walk over from the Leaky. It was taking all Harry’s willpower not to reach out and tuck it behind his ear: he absolutely couldn’t do that, though, because if he did he’d end up caressing Draco’s face, and then kissing him, and then trying to climb onto his lap and finish what they’d started this morning, before they heard Hermione’s shrill voice from the Floo downstairs telling them off for being late.

Focus, he thought. He tried to take an interest in the heated argument Draco was having with Hermione about house-elf living quarters.

“I’m just saying that any responsible decorator would be considering their needs.”

“I _do_ consider their needs - and I can tell you for a fact that house-elves don’t _need_ wardrobes. They don’t own any clothes!”

“I know that; it’s the _principle_ of the thing.”

“Nutters, both of them,” Ron said from across the table.

“I can’t believe they’ve been going on about this for an hour already,” Zabini added in despair. “Weasley, can’t you call her off?”

“Impossible, when she gets going.” Ron was gazing at Hermione fondly. “Why don’t you just ask Malfoy to stop winding her up?”

“No one’s got that kind of power,” Zabini replied sadly, turning to his other side and starting a discussion with Goyle and Bulstrode about baby names.

“Draco,” Harry murmured, nudging him with his elbow. 

To his surprise, Draco stopped in mid-sentence and turned to look at Harry, raising an eyebrow in question.

“How did he do that?” Zabini asked in awe.

“He’s the Malfoy whisperer,” replied Ron, giggling slightly over his Pepper-Up Pilsner.

Harry wasn’t really paying attention to the rest of the table, though, because now Draco was focused entirely on him, his gaze flicking down to Harry’s lips, and how they had thought they could keep this to themselves for even a few hours was beyond him.

“Oh,” said Hermione, rather loudly. 

Harry could feel himself blushing, and Draco sighed with exasperation, but then smirked at Harry as if in challenge. Harry felt himself grinning back, wondering if he was really going to start snogging Draco Malfoy in the middle of the world’s worst beer-garden. When their lips met, it was to a chorus of shrieks and catcalls from their friends, and Harry didn’t care one bit. 

When they finally broke apart - Harry was proud of them for finding the willpower to stop before things got too far, though he still found himself having to remove his hand from up Draco’s shirt - everyone at the table was staring.

“When did this happen, then?” asked Zabini. 

“About eighteen hours ago,” Draco admitted. 

“It’s been going on for ages,” Luna added calmly, “they were just being oblivious.”

Harry turned his attention to Ron, who was gawking at them in horror. “You and Malfoy. You,” he pointed at Harry, “and Malfoy,” he pointed at Draco, “together.”

“Ron,” Hermione said patiently, “we’ve talked about this.”

“You have?” Harry interjected.

“Of course we have, Harry,” she replied, as if it were perfectly obvious. Harry was amazed that the urge to run and hide was only now setting in. “Now, Ron, be nice.”

“I’m happy if you’re happy,” Ron recited dutifully. “If it’s possible to be happy with...him.”

“Weasley,” Draco interjected, thankfully sounding amused rather than insulted, “I’m sitting right here.”

“I can see that,” Ron said miserably, eying the arm Draco had draped around Harry’s shoulders with distrust.

“You’re lucky this place is so crap,” Zabini pointed out. “If there were any photographers around, you two would be toast.”

“Oh,” said Harry, “I hadn't even thought about that.”

“Really?” Draco asked, and Harry shook his head. “You’re an unbelievable idiot sometimes,” Draco told him affectionately.

“Do you think at any point in the last day I’ve been able to think clearly enough to come up with a PR strategy?” Harry retorted. Even Draco flushed at this, and Harry felt vindicated that he wasn’t the only one dying of embarrassment right now.

“Too much information, mate,” he heard Ron say in a strangled voice.

“Just one of the many, many reasons you’re lucky to be with me,” Draco announced, “is that you don’t have to worry about things like that: I’ve come up with a strategy for you. You’re not going to like it, though.”

**xxii**

**The Boys Who Lived...Together?!**  
By Pansy Parkinson  
_Our first look inside the Potter-Malfoy residence reveals far more than just impeccable decor!_

For a long time, readers of _Witch Weekly_ and _Witch Weekly Homes_ have been dying to see inside Harry Potter’s London residence, formerly the home of the esteemed Black family. At the end of last year, it underwent a complete renovation at the talented hands of Draco Malfoy, who even moved into the premises in order to fully oversee the project.

Draco, who was recently awarded ‘Designer of the Year’ by _WWH_ , has remained living in the Islington home following its completion in May, citing the strain of commuting from his mother’s house on the continent.

Since its completion, neither Draco nor Potter have been willing to allow the press to see inside the house: Amelia Emmensworth, a former reporter for _WW_ who tried to take a photograph through one of the front windows, was allegedly transfigured into a goat for her efforts. Ms Emmensworth declined to comment for this piece: rumour has it that she is still unable to complete a sentence without bleating.

This week, however, as a close personal friend of Draco Malfoy, I was granted exclusive access to the house (along with our trusty photographer Derek!), and even an interview with Potter himself. Potter has refused to respond to any of _WW’s_ recent stories, including his former girlfriend Ginny Weasley’s whirlwind romance with her Quidditch coach and his friend Hermione Granger’s (suspiciously rapid) rise to power within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I was keen to give him a chance to go on the record and give our readers some exclusive insights into his home life.

This Sunday’s _Witch Weekly Homes Special Edition_ contains twenty-six pages of high-quality images of the home, and there is very little my descriptions can do to reflect Draco’s extraordinary success in creating a space that is functional yet elegant, comfortable yet refined. It speaks to Draco’s ability to work with difficult clients that the house manages to retain the spirit of Potter’s notoriously relaxed style but also reflects Draco’s own, more elevated aesthetic. 

While officially _WW_ was not given access to the third and fourth floors of the house, privately I knew Draco wouldn’t mind me having a quick look. The master bedroom on the third floor is skillfully done: while the inviting queen-sized four-poster bed, clearly one of Draco’s iconic hand-crafted pieces, is the main feature of the room, my eye is immediately drawn to the way light from the large south-facing window creates a beautiful interplay with an intriguing piece of artwork on the wall, which appears to be an authentic Georgianna Moonstone. It sits perfectly in the space, not dominating but drawing one’s eye: it’s almost disappointing to see it juxtaposed against the pale gold paint, though this contrast is by no means as incongruous as the burgundy armchair in the corner. While the classic Phoenix Tear lamp floating above does help to create a very cosy reading area, I can’t help feeling that Draco may have let deference to his Gryffindor client override his normally unerring sense of colour in this instance.

On the fourth floor are the two final rooms; one of which is clearly Draco’s bedroom, judging by the snakes present throughout the decor and the warm grey walls - though this has widely become a trend in design circles, it was of course pioneered by Draco in his unforgettable transformation of the Zabini family’s summerhouse. I am somewhat surprised to see the room so sparse, empty but for the luxurious bed with matching nightstands, and a wardrobe worthy of any member of the _WW_ Best Dressed List: it has been masterfully Expanded and houses a number of exquisite designer dress robes (see p.23 for this week’s _Disrobed_ , in which our fashion experts turn their well-trained eyes on Draco Malfoy himself!). 

As I move on, I am even more surprised at the second room on this floor. Perhaps it is intended to be an office of some kind, but even so it’s unexpectedly Spartan. Like the bedroom downstairs, its walls are gold, and its furnishings are all handcrafted in luxurious hardwoods, bringing an air of maturity to Potter’s own design sensibilities. These are limited, however, to a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, and a desk, above which are numerous pictures of Potter’s friends and family. My intention to peruse Potter’s reading material is sadly cut short by the menacing movements of a wooden stag figurine, which appears to be patrolling the shelves.

I ponder my findings as I descend the stairs, ready to interview Potter. While the decor is remarkable, more interesting to me, and to _WW’s_ devoted readers, is the relationship between Draco and Potter. In all the years I’ve known Draco, I’ve witnessed many conflicts between the two of them, and many of our mutual friends have confessed to me that they’re concerned about the unusual friendship. “When the two of them are together, they bicker constantly,” one source told me. “It’s exhausting really; feels like we’re still at school.”

Talking to the pair, however, they dispute this. 

“When I asked him to move in, I really didn’t expect us to get along this well,” Potter tells me. “I just thought it was ridiculous that he was travelling to and from his mum’s every day when I had so many spare rooms so close to his work. But I’ve got to say, it’s worked out brilliantly.”

“I suppose we do bicker sometimes,” Draco admits, “but there’s nothing malicious in it at this point. I imagine us more like an old married couple.”

“Steady on,” Potter says, “it’s a bit soon to be talking about marriage, isn’t it?”

I am on the edge of my seat. “Care to clarify that for my readers?”

Draco takes Potter’s hand. You could knock me down with a quill.

“It’s a bit unusual for couples to talk about marriage when they’ve only been together for a month,” Draco tells me. “At some point, maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Potter says, smiling at Draco.

I try to stay composed so I can gather all the facts, but even to someone who’s known Draco for such a long time this news is entirely unexpected. “How would the two of you define your relationship?”

“Romantic,” says Draco.

“I assume it’s serious,” I continue, despite his laconic answer, “as the two of you have clearly moved into the master bedroom together.”

“I told you we should have put some jinxes on the stairs,” Potter tells Draco. I remind them that I can (and probably will!) print everything they say.

“That is a bit of a shame,” Draco confesses, “because the fourth floor was looking wonderful. There is far better light for the Moonstone downstairs, though. Since Pansy’s already been nosing around, I suppose we can allow some photographs now.” (See next page for our unique peek into Harry Potter’s bedroom - you’re welcome, readers!)

“You and that painting,” says Potter. I for one am shocked at the dismissive tone he uses to refer to an artistic masterpiece, but Draco seems surprisingly tolerant, and is looking at Potter with uncharacteristic fondness.

“You love it, too. Harry gave it to me,” he tells me proudly, “as a grand romantic gesture.”

I am admittedly impressed that this piece was selected by Potter. It seems he does have some good taste after all, and it clearly goes beyond art: I’m sure our readers will agree that he has excellent taste in men, too!

“That’s not quite -” Potter begins, but Draco cuts him off.

“It was, and you know it,” he says, holding Potter’s gaze before leaning in to kiss him.

Luckily for our readers, as you’ve doubtless seen on this week’s cover, the inimitable Derek returned from the master bedroom just in time to capture this tender moment.

I decide to take my leave at this point, with assurances from the couple that _Witch Weekly_ will be the first to hear when wedding bells are in the air.

I remain shaken by this unexpected revelation as I depart.

“I suppose you can’t ever know what’s going on behind closed doors,” Derek tells me.

“No, you can’t,” I agree. But, as you know, dear readers, you can always rely on _Witch Weekly_ to find out.

_Don’t forget to pick up your special edition of_ Witch Weekly Homes _this Sunday to see all the pictures of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy’s stunning residence._

 _In the rest of_ Witch Weekly _: our experts examine the contents of Draco Malfoy’s bathroom to let you into all his haircare secrets (p.44)! Plus, Madam Mimosa turns her third eye upon Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter: what could be in store for the happy couple? All will be revealed on p.55…_


End file.
